Wandslake Wizarding University
by yukitsuki
Summary: Based in Harry's seventh year, a muggleborn Hogwarts graduate OC goes on to a wizarding college. On top of classes and Quidditch she finds herself caught up in the Order's plans to finally defeat Voldemort. Diverges fairly severely from canon after book 4
1. The Train

One hand on either side of the cold porcelain sink, Taylor Durden leaned in towards the bathroom mirror until her nose nearly touched the glass. A slightly panicked-looking eighteen-year-old girl with long straight brown hair and brown eyes looked back at her. For a moment she said nothing, matching her reflection stare for stare, a tiny cloudy spot appearing and then disappearing on the mirror's surface in time with the rhythm of her breathing.

"Alright, Taylor," she said finally. "Here we go." She stared a second longer, and then, as if to stiffen her resolve, gave a curt nod and stood up straight again. She turned away from the mirror and heaved a bulky tan duffel over her shoulder, nearly staggering under the weight of it. Regaining her balance, she strode purposefully out of the bathroom onto platform nine and three-quarters.

Taylor stood in a crowd of young wizards and witches all running to and fro as a train whistle blew. All around her, people carrying heavy trunks made their way to the train. Happy to have finally cast off her own heavy Hogwarts trunk in favor of the lighter and more portable duffel, Taylor strode purposefully through the crowd, almost smirking at the several people who had simply given up and were dragging their trunks across the floor, the metal scraping loudly against the cement. At the luggage car, Taylor handed her duffel to a man loading the bags and felt her smug attitude vanish as he threw another giant trunk on top of her duffel, effectively squashing it flat. "Oh well," she thought, "won't be doing that next year." She kept a blue striped drawstring bag with her, containing her purse, wand, and a book for the trip, and now she put her arms through the straps and wore it as a backpack.

She made her way to the passenger compartments of the train and climbed on. The inside of the train was almost exactly what she remembered from all her years at Hogwarts, people running up and down the aisles, shouting hellos to friends. So, basically chaos. But somehow it was comforting to her, in that it was familiar.

Taylor made her way through the noisy crowd to a less occupied car. She didn't know anyone, so she felt more in the way than anything else, people pushing past her to get to someone they hadn't seen all summer. Finding an empty compartment, she wrestled with the door (it stuck), finally getting it to slide shut. She pulled off the blue bag and collapsed into the cushioned seat and let out a heavy sigh. "Well," she thought, "this is it. I'm really doing it."

A year ago she wasn't even sure whether or not she was going to continue school after Hogwarts. Certainly she wanted to, but her family—Muggles—simply couldn't afford the tuition of a five-year wizarding university. Thanks to her top grades at Hogwarts, however (as well as some very impressive letters of recommendation), Taylor had qualified for and received a full-ride academic scholarship funded by a private wizarding organization that supported Muggle-born witches and wizards. So now here she was, on the train to Wandslake Wizarding University in Scotland. And she was terrified.

She chided herself for her horrible nerves and pulled a dog-eared copy of "Sense and Sensibility" from her bag, settling down for the trip.

_It was a difficult time for the Dashwood women_, read Taylor. _Lacking money and the means to make it, and without any relations thoughtful enough to die and leave them some, they were now unattractive marriage prospects for the well-to-do men and boys who might otherwise have been interested..._

Taylor soon found herself completely absorbed, and had read nearly a hundred pages of Elinor and Edward's story when suddenly there was a weight in her lap and Taylor looked up from the book to find a slender black cat staring at her.

"Well, hello," said Taylor, laughing, putting aside her book to pet the cat. "What's your name?" It purred appreciatively, its wide green eyes narrowing to contented slits. Taylor fingered the silver tag on the green collar and pulled it around to have a look.

"Kaliko," she read aloud, and then laughed delightedly. "That seems fairly inappropriate," she commented, noting the cat's solid pitch-black coat. By now the cat had settled on Taylor's lap, purring loudly. The purring sound buzzed in the cat's chest, thrumming through Taylor's legs and stomach, making her feel completely at ease.

"You know, I really should find your owner," she told the cat, who in response only purred louder. Taylor stood carefully, and the cat went limp, draping itself over her arms. "Oh, come on," she said, collecting all the cat's spindly limbs and cradling it carefully. She nudged the compartment door open with her toe, as her hands were full, and leaned all her weight against it to make it slide grudgingly open.

She'd made it only a few steps towards the car to the next door when she heard a voice coming from behind it.

"Yeah, hold on," it said, coming closer, "I just have to find Kali, and then I'll catch up." The door swung open toward Taylor, catching her off guard. She quickly sprang out of the way and caught her balance again, but by then, the young man coming through had crashed into her.

"Whoops!" he said, trying to catch Taylor as she fell, unable to balance herself because of the cat. The cat leapt from Taylor's arms and perched on a light fixture nearby to watch as the two people fell in a heap. "Sorry!" said the boy, pulling Taylor to her feet and smiling broadly. "Wasn't watching where I was going."

"No, no, it's fine," said Taylor, smiling too. She couldn't help but notice that he was very good-looking. He smiled broadly again and then frowned thoughtfully, his brown eyes narrowing as he pointed at her.

"Did you just have a cat?" he asked, after a moment.

At this, Kaliko jumped down from the light fixture, landing softly on Taylor's shoulders.

"Kali!" said the man, "There you are!" He reached out to the cat and it swatted at his hand playfully, meowing loudly. "Ouch," said the man, pulling his hand back. Then he half-grimaced, half-laughed, shaking his finger, saying, "Bad cat!" He reached out again and the cat flew gracefully into his outstretched arms, purring happily again.

Taylor watched all of this with a smile.

"Sorry about that," he said. "She keeps sneaking away from me. But at least she seems to befriend the right sort." He flashed her another smile and she tried furiously not to blush. "Thanks," he said, shifting the cat to one arm and offering her a hand. "I'm Oliver."

"Taylor," she said. "And no problem. She's a dear."

"Well, I have to go," he said, pointing back the direction from which he'd come by way of explanation, "but thanks again. She can be a terror, honestly."

Taylor grinned.

"Maybe I'll see you around at Wandslake," Oliver said, perhaps hopefully, and he gave her one last smile before disappearing into the next car.

"Oh dear," said Taylor. She was standing on the platform at Wandslake University, looking up at the giant pile of trunks unloaded from the train. A stranger next to her nudged her with his elbow.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "I think," said Taylor, slowly, sadly, "that my duffel...is on the bottom of all that." He laughed.


	2. Roommates

Taylor stood outside the door marked 213 in Mugwamp Hall and fumbled with her room key, unable to get it to turn.

"Come on, come on," she urged, jiggling the doorknob and almost wrenching her wrist out trying to force it. She cursed under her breath and kicked the door in her anger, pulling out her wand and pointing it at the metal door handle.

"That won't work," said someone behind her. "Here." A hand took hold of the doorknob. Taylor let go and turned to see a smiling young woman with long blonde hair.

"I was down here last year," she explained. "Most of the doors on this level are tricky." Taylor watched as the blonde leaned all her weight into the door and pushed it up, her hip under the doorknob for leverage. The heavy door _thunked_ against the top of the doorframe and the key turned in the lock, the tumblers falling audibly in to place. "There you go," said the blonde, grinning.

"Thanks," said Taylor, smiling back at her in awe. "That was great!" The blonde laughed.

"You'll get the hang of it. And don't try the unlocking charm, all the locks here are warded, you'll end up in the hospital wing. I'm Krystal Meyers, by the way."

"Taylor Durden, and thanks for the warning."

"No problem!" She waved, and went on down the hall. Taylor wrestled her duffel into the room and dropped it in the middle of the floor, looking around the tiny room. Windows with blue curtains filled the opposite wall, and two small desks were on either side of the room by the window. Then were the beds, bare ugly mattresses, and then a wooden dresser attached to each wall and some cupboards, a mirror image left to right.

"Oh boy," breathed Taylor.

Suddenly the door behind her rattled violently and she spun around.

"Dammit!" came a muffled voice from the other side of the door. "How the hell do you open this stupid thing?"

Taylor could already hear the word "_Aloh-_" and she quickly wrenched the door open. An American girl (Taylor judged by the accent) with short blonde hair stood hunched over in the doorway, her wand pointed where the lock had been a moment before. She looked up at Taylor, and smiled, guiltily.

"_-Hamora?_ Um, sorry," she said, sheepishly, and stood. She pulled her trunk into the room and deposited it next to Taylor's duffel on the floor. Then she extended a hand and smiled broadly. "So much for first impressions," she said, "I'm Chloe."

Taylor genuinely smiled and shook the girl's hand, laughing.

"Taylor."

"So," said Chloe, clasping her hands together and turning to look at the room. She stood there for a moment, surveying their surroundings, and then grinned, biting her lower lip and turned back to Taylor conspiratorially. "Already I have great plans for decorating our dorm room."

Chloe flung open her trunk and clothes flew everywhere. It seemed she'd packed her trunk to the bursting point. She looked embarrassed as she started collecting them again, throwing them back onto the trunk lid while she rummaged around in the bottom.

"Sorry again," she said, "I'm one of those who pack by the 'stuff it all in every which-way' method."

"Same here!" said Taylor, already warming to her new roommate. She dumped her own duffel's contents out on the floor and had a similar display explosion of garments.

Chloe found what she was looking for and dropped a giant tangle of small-bulb Christmas lights onto her bed. Taylor gave a start, surprised, and evidently Chloe saw her reaction.

"They're Christmas lights," she explained, "Muggles use them-"

"I know," said Taylor, hurriedly. "I'm Muggle-born."

"Me too!" thrilled Chloe, smiling excitedly. "OK, first things first." She pulled out her wand and pointed it at Taylor's bed. "_Cimex lectularious_," she said, and white sheets appeared over the mattress with a 'pop,' followed by several blankets and a blue comforter exactly the same shade as the drapes on the windows. She then performed the same charm on her own bed.

"Wow," said Taylor, eyebrows raised. Chloe grinned.

"Only the beginning, my friend," said the blonde. "Here, can you help me with these?" Chloe picked up the giant knot of Christmas lights, turning it over in her hands until the plug end fell out. "Aha!" she said, dropping the lot and grabbing the plug. "This'll take forever, but I can just thread the end back through."

"Oh no no no," said Taylor. "Here. I had to learn this one to unravel hags' thread spells, and it turned out to be useful all those Christmases Dad spent yelling at the outdoor lights." Chloe stepped back and Taylor pulled out her wand, flicking it at the crumpled heap of plastic lights. "_Unnodo-tortum!_" she said, and the plug end of the string came to life as if it were the head of a snake, bobbing to and fro. Then it turned back on itself, weaving through the snarls to untangle the lot. Finally, it wrapped itself into an orderly coil before falling lifeless again.

"Cool!" said Chloe, picking up the coil and smiling at Taylor. Then she jumped up onto her bed and reached over to the upper right hand corner, securing the end to the ceiling by a charm that made her wand squirt out a glob of bright orange goo.

"What on Earth is that?" asked Taylor, looking up at it.

"_Depactus!_" said Chloe, again, another dab of orange securing part of the string halfway across the wall. "Basic glue spell," she explained, not looking away from her work.

Taylor turned back to the contents of her bag, which were now strewn all over the floor. With a wave of her wand, her dresser burst open and her clothes flew into the open drawers. The wardrobe by the door flew open and her robes hung themselves on the hangers, smoothing out the wrinkles before the doors closed again.

Then Taylor turned back to her bag and pulled a few things out of the bottom. One was a beat-up manila file folder, which she threw onto the desk in the corner. The faded black writing on the front tab said simply, "TAYLOR'S DESK." Also she pulled out a brightly colored drawstring bag, which contained her bathroom kit. That she hung from a cupboard hinge, before walking over to the desk.

There, Taylor opened the folder, laying it flat on the old wood surface. It was as if Taylor had cut a square hole in the desk, she could reach down into the black void and pull out her rolls of parchment and quills, along with all sorts of other school supplies, which she stored in the desk drawers and on the shelves above. After reaching to the very bottom of the folder-hole for the last thing, leaning so far she thought she might fall in, Taylor closed the file folder and put it in a desk drawer.

"Does this look straight to you?" Taylor turned to find Chloe was across the room absorbed in using a Muggle stapler to attach a Quidditch team's poster to her bulletin board.

"Down a little on the left." Chloe moved it accordingly. "Perfect."

Taylor used her own bulletin board for putting up a huge number of pictures, many of her family (her mother and father smiled and waved from several), but most were from her years at Hogwarts.

Later, they both sat down on their beds simultaneously, letting out a happy sigh as one. Looking around, the dorm room had been completely transformed. Now it looked like... Well, like home.

"Let's go out," said Chloe suddenly, standing. "We can explore the campus, and get some food." As if in agreement, her stomach growled loudly.

"Yeah!" said Taylor, excited. "Good, I can figure out where my classes are."

"Brilliant," said Chloe, who started rummaging around in her wardrobe for her purse. Finding it, she grabbed Taylor by the arm and dragged her out of the room.

"Hold on," Taylor argued as Chloe pulled the door shut behind them, "let me make sure I have my class schedule. Ah, here it is." She looked up from her bag to see Chloe hitting herself on the forehead with the heel of her hand with a loud smack.

"Schedule!" she said, exasperatedly. "That might be helpful, hold on." She turned back to the door, and before Taylor could stop her had performed the unlocking spell.

Taylor shielded her eyes and turned away from the blinding white light that exploded from where Chloe had just been standing. When her vision cleared, multi-colored sparklers imprinted on her eyes finally dimming, she turned back and looked in alarm at what had happened to Chloe.

"Oh dear," she breathed, gazing down at a snow-white owl trying to wrestle free of the blouse Chloe had been wearing just a few moments earlier.


	3. Wandslake

"Typical," scoffed a voice at Taylor's elbow, taking her by surprise. She nearly jumped to find a wizened old man in midnight robes standing next to her, where a moment before she was quite sure he hadn't been there. "First- years," said the man, scowling down at the owl and shaking his head, his shock of white hair cemented severely in place. "They think they know everything."

He didn't seem to be talking to Taylor directly, so she said nothing, letting him continue his tirade against her and her year-mates, collectively.

"Well, let's have a look at you," he said finally, stooping down to pick up the white owl, formerly Taylor's own roommate. For her part, Chloe seemed to be handling the situation very well. Hooting piercingly, sounding somewhat confused in Taylor's opinion, owl-Chloe looked around blankly, her head swiveling from side to side.

"Oh, Chloe," said Taylor softly, shaking her head.

"S'this your roommate?" asked the man accusingly, thrusting the owl towards Taylor. She jumped back to avoid a face full of feathers.

"Er, yes?"

"Not the sharpest tool in the shed, this one," he stated.

Chloe bit him.

"Frogspawn!" shouted the old man, arms flailing about trying to dislodge the owl. She flapped free of his hand and settled haphazardly on Taylor's shoulder, emitting screeches that could only be the owl-equivalent of laughter. The man rubbed his hand where the owl had nipped him and then shook a finger angrily at her where she sat preening just an inch from Taylor's right ear.

"I've half a mind to leave you in this state, youngling," he said.

"You mean it's not permanent?" said Taylor, relieved. From what that woman, Krystal, had said earlier, she was expecting the worst.

"Well, yes, in most cases. It's for your own protection you know, to keep people from creeping about in your rooms at night." He still hadn't stopped scowling at the owl. "But in the first week of school so many of you first-years lose your keys and do some fool thing to spell the doors, so we have to take the stricter charms off the doors. This'll just teach her a lesson. She's my third call today."

A wand appeared in his hand as if from nowhere and with an almost lazy flick of his wrist, Chloe reappeared with a _pop!_, looking white and shaken.

"Not likely you'll do that again, eh?" asked the man approvingly before disapparating.

"I don't feel so good," said Chloe, clutching her stomach. Taylor only laughed and put an arm around her shoulder.

"Come on, let's get you something to eat," she told her, leading Chloe out of their dorms.

.

"What the hell is that?" asked Chloe, staring nonplussed at the steaming heap of-whatever it was, as it slowly settled on her partitioned tray, the slimy red substance seeping over the plastic confines of one segment into an adjoining heap of mashed potatoes. Chloe tilted her tray to stop the oozing and it dribbled over another scoop of green beans on the other side. "Eeurgh." She shuddered.

"Lasagna," grunted the heavy-set man on the other end of the metal scoop, in answer to her question. "Enjoy." He said this almost threateningly, and Taylor hastily thanked him before hurrying Chloe off to find seats.

They sat at opposite ends of a small round table, and Taylor looked around as Chloe poked suspiciously at her lasagna with a fork. The cafeteria was made up of several small round tables as well as a number of long ones in the center of the building. One side of the room was completely made up of windows, looking out on the center of the campus, the giant gold goalposts of the distant Quidditch field barely visible on the waning evening light. Surrounding an open grassy area were all the school buildings: classrooms, dormitories, all number of things. They looked very square and-well, normal. Muggle. Nothing like the architecture from Hogwarts or Diagon Alley, where all the angles were soft and sort of crooked.

Taylor looked back at the opposite wall of the cafeteria, which was given over to the food line, disgruntled looking witches and wizards dishing out scoopfuls of food to frightened- (or queasy-) looking students. Here too, things felt exceedingly Muggle in nature.

"It's weird," said Taylor, suddenly, "but don't you feel this is a lot like a normal Muggle college?" At Hogwarts, mealtimes had been strictly enforced and the students ate together, organized by house at the tables that stretched the length of the great hall. The food wasn't served to them; it just appeared magically on their plates. Food, Taylor noted sadly, of much higher quality than what she was presently eating.

"Well," said Chloe, taking a bite of the dessert, the only part of her meal she'd decided was truly edible, "I expect they're trying to make it as Muggle as possible, aren't they?" Taylor frowned, her fork upended in her lasagna.

"What do you mean?"

"After this, we go out there and we're expected to co-exist with the Muggle world. Think of people from a long wizarding line, all they know is magic. So here, they prepare people for how things work without it."

Chloe was using her mashed potatoes to build a wall with green bean reinforcements, trying to keep her lasagna from running over onto her brownie any more.

"I never thought of that," Taylor said, chewing a rubbery bean thoughtfully. "I expect you're right."

The lasagna had broken through Chloe's defenses, the red sauce pouring through the defeated wall of vegetables and pooling around her half-eaten brownie.

"No! No!" cried Chloe, frantically trying to spoon the lasagna away from her precious dessert. Finally she gave up, throwing the spoon down in disgust. "Ugh." She leaned across the table, taking Taylor's hands in her own and gripping them tightly. "Taylor, promise me we'll start stockpiling real food in our dorm room, I can't handle this for long."

"Agreed," said Taylor, standing and picking up her tray to throw away the majority of her dinner.

"It's getting dark," said Taylor worriedly as they stepped out of the cafeteria. There was little left of the sun on the horizon, and Taylor wanted to find all her classrooms before going back to their dorms.

"Oh quit worrying, we'll be fine," said Chloe, who was digging in her purse for her schedule again. After her short phase as an owl, Chloe had been wary to going back to the room, despite Taylor showing her the trick to the door, so she'd made Taylor get it for her.

"Aha!" Chloe was triumphantly holding a crumpled piece of parchment in her fist. She smoothed it out, looking at her classes. "Here," she said, grabbing Taylor's own neatly folded parchment schedule and comparing the two. "Oh yay!" she exclaimed, "We have two classes together!"

"Really? That's great," said Taylor, leaning in to look.

"Yeah, 'Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts' and 'History of Magic 101,' see?" She pointed.

"Good," said Taylor, smiling, "you can keep me awake in history. I hate that class. Come on, let's find these classrooms."

They stumbled across the campus in the dark for an hour, back and forth between different buildings, laughing and sharing stories about their old schools. Chloe, Taylor learned, had gone to a small American school of magic in Kansas. Unlike Taylor, Chloe's Muggle parents had been able to scrape together enough for her to go to Wandslake, but the two girls found plenty they had in common.

"God yes, I was terrified!" said Chloe, when Taylor asked if she'd been nervous. "I holed up in a compartment on the train and locked the door." She laughed as they headed back to their dorms. "I didn't talk to anyone till you."

"I was ridiculously nervous and had the same plan as you, but-I ran into someone eventually." Taylor smiled to herself, remembering her encounter with Oliver on the train.

"What? What? Tell!" demanded Chloe, saying this in rapid succession. "Boy? Yes? Tell!" She turned towards Taylor and was so excited she was practically skipping backwards as Taylor refused to say anything, grinning and shaking her head, lips sealed.

Chloe pestered her the entire rest of the walk to their room, pleading, clasping her hands together and begging.

"Come on, please please please? Please please pleasepleasepleaseplease!"

"For the last time, no!" said Taylor, trying—and failing—to come across as angry as she forced the door to their room open (it only took two tries). Chloe bounced in, and the Christmas lights came on with a wave of her wand. She turned back to where Taylor was closing the door behind them and pouted, her lower lip trembling. She let out a whimper.

Taylor flung a pillow at her and she shrieked, jumping aside. It deflected off her shoulder and knocked down part of the string of lights.

"Oh now look what you did," said Chloe, hands on hips. She let Taylor get ready for sleep as she stood on her own bed, trying to reattach the Christmas lights.

Taylor dressed for bed, pulling on plaid pajama pants and a white tank top to sleep in. She crawled under the covers and was instantly warm, part of the bedding spell. Across the room, Chloe was still standing on her bed, fiddling with the string of lights.

"Goodnight Chloe," said Taylor.

"G'night!"

Taylor rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Things were looking up, she thought. She'd made it to Wandslake. She'd managed to un-squash everything in her duffel. She had a great roommate, and at least one of them could get the door open most of the time. She smiled and rolled onto her side. Things were definitely looking up.

An hour later, Taylor sat up and glared across the room at her roommate.

"Chloe, if you can't make those damn Christmas lights stop blinking in the next thirty seconds, I'll throw them out the window myself."

"OK, OK, hold on," said Chloe, and Taylor could just make out her shadow in the slow strobe. "I'm on the last three feet, it has to be one of these bulbs that's out."


	4. Tryouts

Taylor reached over and turned off her magical alarm clock. It was charmed to say, "_Open your eyes,_" in her mother's voice, and it was making her homesick. She looked groggily across the room at Chloe, and started laughing. In the middle of the night she'd managed to kick off all her covers and then roll off the bed onto the floor.

The laughter woke Chloe, who was mostly confused at finding herself out of bed. They both stood and stretched, yawning identical large O's.

Taylor pulled on a pair of jeans as Chloe shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt. They both finished dressing in silence before grabbing their kits and heading for the bathrooms.

There they met many others still wiping sleep out of their eyes, but the showers were running and people were beginning to wake up. Chloe and Taylor managed to get two sinks next to each other and Taylor put down her toothpaste, turning on the faucet.

"Ooh," said Chloe, surprised at her reflection. "Scary hair." Her short- cropped blonde hair was spiking out in all directions, and she pulled her wand out of her back pocket. With a few simple incantations, Chloe was back to normal, her hair in a cute sort of Meg Ryan shag. "Better?" she asked Taylor.

Spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste, Taylor gave a thumbs-up and rinsed.

"Immaculate," she said. Taylor's own hair was too much to be bothered with this early in the morning, so she just brushed it out and left it down, the very ends curling out ever so slightly at about elbow-length.

They went by their room one more time to grab their bags before stepping out of their building. Taylor looked across to the cafeteria, where many people around them were heading for breakfast.

"What do you think," she said to Chloe, glancing over, "should we risk it?"

"Hmm," said Chloe, lips pursed. She seemed to be weighing her hunger against her run-in with the lasagna the night before. "Better not."

"OK," sighed Taylor, "Here we go. Our schedules are close enough to the same, so meet back here after third class, alright? Then we'll debate lunch."

Chloe nodded and waved as they walked off in opposite directions.

Most of Taylor's classes turned out to be very much like she remembered them from Hogwarts. First she had transfiguration, and the professor—a tiny little balding wizard named Bowser—started them off with a diagnostic charm to see the extent of their knowledge. Taylor had managed to turn an ornately decorated iron bookshelf into a hippogriff and back again, and was given full marks. Professor Bowser told her she'd likely be mastering self- transfiguration spells before the end of the quarter and she eagerly looked forward to it.

Her second class had been astronomy, and that had been a bit different.

"This class is not based on strict classroom attendance," said the middle-aged witch professor. Several people around Taylor, guys mostly, gave each other high-fives, grinning. "Instead," continued the witch, "you're required to log night-hours, times you spend out in the field." The high-fivers groaned, and Taylor smirked at them.

After astronomy she'd had a dueling class, which was the most surprising of all.

"Professor Lupin!" said Taylor delightedly, recognizing the man at the head of the class. The professor looked up, equally surprised.

"Miss Durden," he said, smiling back at her. Lupin had been Taylor's defense against the dark arts teacher her fourth year at Hogwarts, but had to leave when it was discovered he was a were-wolf. "Good to see you," he said, "take a seat."

That class had started into the subject matter right away, and Taylor walked to lunch with her hair a mess from an unfriendly spell she'd been unable to block during a dueling exercise.

"What happened to you?" asked Chloe, who was already standing in front of the cafeteria.

"Dueling," said Taylor, bitterly, trying to untangle a knot of hair with her fingers. Finally she gave up, twisting it all together and using a large- feather quill to secure it in a tight bun at the back of her head.

They walked into the cafeteria together, and Chloe made a face at the smell.

"Eeurgh," she said. "But I'm starving, so here goes."

After going through the food line, being jostled by other hungry students and glared at by the cafeteria workers, Taylor led Chloe to the same table they had sat at before.

"How were your classes?" asked Taylor, tasting a tentative spoonful of her broccoli-cheddar soup. She made a face.

Chloe had opted for a ham and cheese sandwich, which she now regarded as if waiting to make sure it wouldn't sprout legs and scuttle off her plate.

"Okay," she said, shrugging. "Nothing spectacular. How's the soup?"

"I think this might be melted Barbie," said Taylor, letting a spoonful of the soup pour back into her bowl. Chloe laughed and took a bite of her sandwich, then looked immediately as though she regretted it.

"It's awful," said Chloe, forcing herself to swallow. She shuddered, making a ghastly face. She pushed the tray away and stood. "I'm going back to the room."

"Wait, hold on," said Taylor, dropping her spoon, startled. "I'll come, give me a moment."

"No, it's alright," said Chloe, gathering her book bag. "I can handle the door." She dumped her tray and bolted, leaving Taylor sitting alone and confused. She tried to finish her lunch, but felt awkward sitting there by herself. Stuffing the roll into her pocket, she stood and took her tray to the garbage, hurrying after Chloe.

"Chloe!" she said, running down the stairs to the exit. "Wait!" She pushed the doors open and stopped. Chloe was nowhere to be seen. She must have sprinted all the way across campus, thought Taylor, worried.

She hurried back to their dorms, and opened the door to find Chloe sitting at her desk, scribbling furiously with a quill across a scrap of parchment. Taylor, out of breath, closed the door behind her and walked to where Chloe sat, looking interestedly over her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Writing home," she said, dipping the quill in her inkwell so violently that black ink splattered across her desk. "We are in desperate need of care packages, Taylor."

After her lunch break, Taylor headed out of the dorms for her fourth class of the day. Chloe, who didn't have any classes until their shared history class, was still in the dorms, no doubt still drafting her nutritional SOS.

In the dorm foyer, Taylor noticed a large number of people crowding around the bulletin board on one wall. Carefully elbowing her way to the front, Taylor managed to see what all the fuss was about. A hastily written notice was posted:

"Quidditch season is coming up, and there are still a few positions open on the Wandslake team. Open tryouts tomorrow, noon. Sign up below."

Already there were a few names posted on the list, and people all around her were talking excitedly about it. Taylor's heart sunk. There was nothing she'd like more than to play Quidditch for the university team, but she had serious doubts about her own skills. Chewing the corner of her lower lip and frowning worriedly, Taylor stayed still a moment too long and was pushed out of the way by a burly young man with sandy hair.

Taylor caught herself on the edge of the bulletin board, shouting, "Hey!"

"Oh, what?" said the boy, his accent American, as he procured a quill and signed his name with a flourish. He turned to look at her. "I suppose you were going to sign up?" he sneered, almost challenging. She shoved back at him, turning her shoulder into his side. He stumbled, clearly surprised at the amount of force behind her.

"Maybe I was," she said, and pulled the quill from her hair, signing the list without looking away from him. He smirked at her.

"See you tomorrow then," he said, before storming down the hall opposite hers.

.

It was a little before noon the next day and Taylor was hurrying across campus in her old Ravenclaw-blue Quidditch practice robes, Firebolt in hand as she made her way to the field. Her stomach was doing nervous flip-flops and she gripped the broom handle as if her life depended on it. Her long hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she'd braided it to keep strands from flying into her face.

She reached the Quidditch pitch in moments and walked down the grassy hill behind the bleachers to where a crowd of people was gathering.

Taylor approached the group, made up entirely of huge guys all talking about their past Quidditch experience. A study in one-up-man-ship, thought Taylor, who remained silently on the outskirts of the group. A few of the young men turned to look at her and nod appreciatively, but none of them talked to her. She realized most of these people were older than her; only one other looked like a first-year, and she scowled to recognize him as the American who had shoved her the day before.

"Hey," said a quiet voice next to her, and she almost jumped. A tall blonde with waist-long blonde hair in matching braids stood next to her, smiling. She was at least two years older that Taylor, she guessed. "I figure we girls ought to stick together," she whispered, offering Taylor a hand.

"Hi," said Taylor, shaking her hand warmly, "I'm Taylor."

"Amélie," the girl replied, with the slightest French accent. "But that's a mouthful, call me Mel. This is my fourth year trying out," she said. "But we finally got a new captain, so maybe I have a shot."

"You had a problem with the old captain?" asked Taylor.

"We had our differences," Mel said, vaguely. "Still, from what I hear this Wood is a real slave-driver—" She was interrupted by a shout and they both turned towards the center of the pitch.

"Hey! You lot!" called a familiar Scottish accent. The rest of the group quieted and turned to see a tall dark-haired young man in normal clothing coming towards them, and Taylor's heart skipped a beat as she recognized him as Oliver, from the train. In one hand was the list from the bulletin board, the parchment rolled tightly. He reached the group and they bristled, all the guys trying to get to the front of the crowd. Mel and Taylor were easily pushed to the back, where they couldn't see anything that might be happening up front.

"I'm Wood," said Oliver briskly. "New team captain. There's supposed to be fifteen of you, so listen up. There's probably going to be about five spots, at least one of each position. That means two-thirds of you get cut." Taylor swallowed in a nervous habit. How inspiring, she thought, glancing sideways at Mel, who raised her eyebrows in silent agreement.

"Alright," continued Oliver, I want to see who's here." The crowd thinned a little, spreading lengthwise until the girls could almost crane their necks to see over the heads of those in front. "Answer by calling out your position," Oliver said. "Poliakov."

"Beater," came a growl, with what Taylor was surprised to recognize as a heavy Bulgarian accent.

"Michaels."

"Seeker!" called Mel, cupping her hands around her mouth so Oliver could hear her from the back of the crowd.

Oliver called more names, pausing each time for the answer and writing it next to the name, usually looking up to put a face to the name. Taylor knew her name was near the bottom and grew increasingly nervous. Her mouth went dry and she licked her lips, willing her voice not to come out all croaky.

"Durden."

Taylor froze, the word caught in her throat.

"Durden?" he said again, and Taylor cleared her throat.

"Beater," she said.


	5. Quidditch

"What?" said the crowd, turning as one to look back at Taylor in surprise.

Even Mel glanced sideways in wide-eyed disbelief.

"You! A Beater?" said the big Bulgarian, Poliakov. "Ha! I'd be surprised if you could even lift the club!" Others snickered in agreement and Taylor felt her face flush. She was about to reply scathingly, but Oliver spoke first.

"Shut it," came his voice, and the crowd quieted, turning back to face him. "You'll all get your chance." Then he finally caught sight of Taylor and froze, looking surprised as recognition dawned. "Oh," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. Then he seemed to snap out of it, and called the last name on the list, writing "Chaser" next to it. Then Oliver rolled up the parchment and surveyed the group.

"Alright," he said. "You won't be needing brooms or robes yet. We're starting by running a mile." There were groans, but Taylor wasn't that bothered. She liked running. Shedding her blue practice robes, Taylor revealed running shorts and a tank top. Many of the guys around her whistled approvingly, pulling off their own robes. Taylor looked embarrassed, and Mel, who apparently knew a good number of people, launched into an angry tirade in French as she pulled her robes over her head. A few in the crowd seemed to understand and held up their hands in a sign of compliance, grinning and shaking their heads.

"What was that?" Taylor asked as they assembled in front of Oliver again.

"Empty threats," said Mel. "Just don't let them get to you, most of them are pretty harmless."

"Alright," said Oliver, holding a stopwatch. "Three times around the pitch is a little farther than a mile. Keep in mind though; this is an exercise in stamina more than speed. I only have this—" he held up the stopwatch "—to keep tabs on your progress." Everyone nodded, and when Oliver's thumb pressed down on the button the group shot forward. A few of the guys at the front sprinted out ahead, getting an early lead.

"Idiots," said Mel watching them, shaking her head. "Did he not just say it wasn't about speed? Men," she grunted. Taylor just nodded.

They fell in step with each other, keeping an even pace that put them solidly in the middle of the group, some lagging behind and others sprinting off into the distance. After about a minute, Taylor felt someone kick one foot out from under her and she stumbled. Mel grabbed her elbow and managed to keep her from falling and Taylor turned, looking angrily for her attacker. It was the sandy-haired American boy from her dorm, the only other first-year trying out. He was smirking at her, his green eyes glinting malevolently.

"Can't even keep control of your feet," he scoffed. "Pathetic. And you think you'll actually make the team?" He passed them, sprinting off in front to lead the pack.

Taylor snarled and made to chase after him, but Mel grabbed the back of her shirt.

"Ugh," said Mel. "Don't. He's not worth it." Taylor relented and fell back in step beside her.

They spent the first two laps getting to know each other better. Mel had gone to Beauxbatons, and had actually been one of the girls who came to Hogwarts during Taylor's fifth year for the disastrous Tri-Wizard Tournament. They had even stayed in Taylor's own house, Ravenclaw, and they'd never met, being three years apart. (Beauxbatons had eight years, Taylor learned.)

"Hey, fem-Beater!" called a voice from behind them suddenly, cutting off their conversation. Taylor gritted her teeth and turned around angrily, expecting another snide comment, but the lanky redhead that waved at her now was genuinely smiling. His wide grin was so affable that Taylor couldn't help but smile back, and he took a few long strides to catch up to them, running on Taylor's left.

"I'm George Weasley, second-year and a Beater," he said, giving the long introduction, offering Taylor his hand, which she took and shook haphazardly as they ran.

"Taylor Durden, first-year."

George reached across to Mel and shook her hand too.

"Amelie Michels," she said, "or preferably Mel. Fourth-year Seeker." Taylor was regarding George with distant recollection, making the safest guess she could.

"Did you go to Hogwarts?" she asked him, and George grinned and touched a finger to the tip of his nose.

"I knew I recognized you," he said excitedly, "you played for Ravenclaw my last two years. Only girl Beater I ever knew, and you were bloody brilliant on a broom, just a blur of blue robes and lightning-quick with a club."

Taylor looked embarrassed at the praise.

"Wow, I'm really looking forward to seeing you in action," said Mel, eyebrows raised as she grinned down at Taylor.

"I played my last three years," said Taylor to George, "but we never did manage to beat Gryffindor."

"Well of course not," he said, laughing, and she hit him playfully. "Can't expect to, what with Wood as captain."

"What?" said Mel and Taylor, confused.

"Oh, that's right, he must have graduated before you started playing," said George, thinking. "He was Gryffindor captain, I played for him for years, he's one of my best mates."

"Lucky you," said Mel, "looks like you've got the best chances here."

"Oh not likely," George said. "Sure we're friends, but there's no way he'll take me on unless I'm really the best for it."

"He's fair, then?" asked Taylor.

"Not so much fair as obsessed with winning," said George, grinning. Then he added, "But yes, actually, he's pretty fair."

The three finished their third lap in just over seven minutes, running past Wood before stopping to walk and catch their breath. Taylor massaged a side-ache with one hand and cursed herself inwardly, wishing she'd brought a water bottle. People were still finishing behind them, so they got out of the way, moving to where earlier runners had begun to gather. Several were doubled over, heaving for breath. Taylor noted that the American was one of them, having nearly sprinted the whole way.

The last person finished and Oliver followed him to where they all had congregated.

"Good work," he said. "Some of you may recall I said it was an exercise in stamina, and others—" here he looked pointedly at the sandy-haired American that had bothered Taylor earlier "—will be distressed to learn you will be running it again."

The American struggled to his feet, saying, "What?"

"Go," said Oliver, pointing.

Mel laughed outright.

"Serves him right," said George, as they started running again.

The three of them assumed their same speed, pacing themselves nicely. The American lagged behind, as well as many others, and soon Taylor's group outdistanced the rest. They were the first to finish, and spent the extra time waiting for others to catch their breath.

"Boy, I hope that's the last time," said George, and Taylor nodded her agreement, now holding another side-ache to match her first.

"Everyone alright?" asked Oliver, once everyone had finished their second mile. He was met with groans from some. "Glad to hear it," he said, grinning.

"Hey man, when do we get to fly?" called someone.

"Right now," Oliver said. "Get a move on."


	6. Scrimmage

Taylor pulled her robes over her head, her usual pre-game jitters already starting. She strapped on the thick leather padding she wore on her forearms and hands. Gripping her broom tightly, she brushed her fingers over the handle of her Beater's club to make sure it was where it belonged, hanging within the folds of her robes. Taylor waited for George and Mel to assemble their own gear and then took hold of her club, taking comfort in familiarity.

The wood handle was smooth from use, the brilliantly painted designs faded from wear. The business end of the club was pitted and scarred, some chunks missing from the end. Taylor ran a hand over the inlaid silver vine design wrapping around the heavy wood club, tracing its path down to the pommel, which was capped entirely in silver, an emblem of a dragon embossed onto the circle.

George pulled on the sleeve of Taylor's robes and she looked up to see a group of people in brilliant green practice robes was walking across the pitch now. She realized they must be the Wandslake team. Two of the seven were women, and they spotted Taylor and Mel and walked over.

"Hey," said one, a short black woman with a wide face, perfect for broad smiles. "I'm Donna," she said. "This is Ann," she hooked a thumb over her shoulder at the other woman, about Taylor's size and build, but older. "We're both Chasers." All four women shook hands, introducing themselves further. The two newcomers looked taken aback to learn Taylor was a Beater but seemed more impressed than skeptical, which Taylor was glad of.

"Hope the guys aren't giving you problems," said Ann. "I remember being terrified of them when I first tried out, and I wasn't cutting into their turf quite so much as if I were a Beater."

"I know," said Taylor, grimacing, but feeling encouraged none the less at Ann's words. Ann beamed.

George elbowed Taylor hard in the ribs, whispering, "Introduce me," in her ear. She grinned and obliged.

"Ann, this is George Weasley," said Taylor, and watched delightedly as George took Ann's extended hand and kissed it, sweeping a deep bow. Ann laughed at his antics, and curtseyed.

Mel and Donna rolled their eyes.

"Are you flying with us for tryouts?" Mel asked, and Donna shrugged.

"I'd suppose so," she said. "Oliver just told us to be here at half-past noon."

"Speak of the devil," said Ann, as Oliver appeared next to them in striped referee robes, carrying a Quaffle.

"Let's go," he told the group.

Taylor hopped on her broom and kicked off hard, George and Mel and the two players in green following suit. Around them, the other hopefuls rose into the air as well, waiting for instructions.

Oliver split the group into two teams, including his own players as well. Mel and George and Taylor all managed to be on the same team, and Oliver charmed everyone's robes to be with green or yellow. For a moment Taylor was annoyed; she was proud of her Ravenclaw colors. But then she remembered that she wanted _these_ to be her colors now, too.

"We'll just scrimmage," said Oliver, calling out the names of people he wanted on the field first. Clad in yellow, Taylor and Mel were on, and they flew forward. "I'll switch people around throughout the game to see everyone play, so be ready to go in." Oliver dropped back down to the ground to release the Bludgers and the Snitch, the latter of which hovered momentarily in front of Mel and her opponent, the Wandslake Seeker, before disappearing into the distance, its tiny golden wings fluttering in the sun.

"Ready?" called Oliver, and everyone nodded. He threw up the Quaffle and the game began.

The other Beater on Taylor's team was one of the Wandslake players, a big heavy-set man with a shaved head. He flew off after a Bludger down the opposite end of the field, and Taylor looked across at the opposing Beaters, one of whom was the Bulgarian, Poliakov. He flew past her, cobbing her with an elbow.

"Now we'll see if you can even stay on your broom," he called over his shoulder, and Taylor gritted her teeth angrily. She'd show him.

Turning her broom toward her team's goalposts, she urged her Firebolt forward and it leapt into action just as she remembered. There was a flurry of activity by the goalpost, and Taylor assumed the Quaffle was changing hands. The tell-tale rumbling of a Bludger nearby made her look to her left, seeing the heavy black ball coming towards her. She swung her club hard, and it connected with a satisfying _thunk_, sending the Bludger towards the swarm of players in front of the keep. They scattered to avoid the Bludger, and she smiled in grim satisfaction as a yellow-clad Chaser caught the dropped Quaffle and sped off with it towards the other end of the pitch.

Suddenly, a growl alerted her to another Bludger. She looked up to see Poliakov sending a Bludger her way with as much force as he could muster. She deflected it with her club, the impact jarring her arm up to her shoulder, and she glared back at Poliakov, who looked disappointed that it hadn't unseated her.

Following the action, Taylor weaved in and out of the thick of things, swatting Bludgers away from her teammates and sending them towards the opposition. She was pleased to see her aim was still deadly accurate, making green-clad Chasers roll over in mid-air to avoid being hit.

She felt completely at ease now, all nervousness lost in the adrenaline of flight. She remembered how it felt to really play Quidditch and grinned to herself, speeding around the pitch.

A Chaser in green managed to get hold of the Quaffle and was flying past her at breakneck speed, heading for the yellow team's goal posts. Taylor followed, trying to locate the nearest Bludger. She saw it just in time, and swung hard, sending the black ball towards the Chaser who was about to throw the Quaffle through the golden hoop. The Bludger caught the tail end of his broom, knocking him sideways and making his throw several feet off. The Keeper caught the Quaffle easily and threw it back to one of their team's Chasers.

The game was starting to get really heated now, and tempers were flaring. A Beater had just thrown his club at an opponent and Oliver had called a foul, taking the chance to change out some of the new players. Taylor stayed in, but George took the other Beater's place, flying in with a wave at her.

After the substitutions, the game recommenced, and Taylor flew back into position to protect her teammates. Poliakov seemed to be everywhere at once, sending so many Bludgers at her team, she wasn't sure anymore that there were only two on the field. Each time she blocked the Bludger, sending it back at the other team, Poliakov grew more and more angry.

Taylor dropped below where most of the game was taking place, following a Bludger. She looked up, squinting, to see Poliakov taking aim at Mel, who was just circling, looking for the Snitch. Angry at the possibility of what would be an entirely unprovoked attack, Taylor reached the stray Bludger and swung upwards as hard as she could. The Bludger shot straight up, and she shielded her eyes against the sun with her free hand, looking up to follow its progress. It was right on target, flying up into Poliakov's billowing robes. The force of the Bludger caught in his robes pulled Poliakov completely off the broom, dropping him again once it had come free. He gave a low bellow of alarm but caught himself on his broom again, looking momentarily unsettled.

And it had worked; Mel flew out of range of the other Bludger.

Poliakov looked around frantically for the source of the Bludger that had nearly unseated him, and when he finally looked down and saw Taylor, she grinned and waved as she flew back up to where the Chasers were fighting over the Quaffle.

Taylor heard shouts and turned to see Mel in a spectacular dive. She'd obviously seen the Snitch. The other Seeker was racing after her, but she was leagues ahead, hand already outstretched.

"Go, go, go!" urged Taylor under her breath, leaning forward on her broom, willing Mel's Cleansweep 12 to go faster. Around her, players on both teams were shouting at the Seekers, everyone wanting their own to triumph. Taylor watched as Mel's fingers closed over the golden Snitch, and somewhere a whistle trilled shrilly. She gave a whoop, shouting "Atta girl, Mel!" and punching the air with her club. All the other players were either groaning or cheering loudly.

In all the noise, Taylor almost didn't hear the growl behind her in time.


	7. Aggression

In all the noise, Taylor almost didn't hear the growl behind her in time. As it was, she turned just in time to see the end of the giant Beater Poliakov's back swing, bringing his club down hard at her neck. Too late, she put up her own club to block the blow and the man's connected with the back of her right hand with a sickening crunch.

She cried out in pain, dropping her club and recoiling, biting back a scream. Her instinctual reaction was retaliation, and her good left hand balled into a fist, catching the other Beater square in the face, his head snapping back with a surprised grunt. His hand flew to his nose, which was now bleeding freely.

Snarling like a wild animal, he grabbed the front of her robes, pulling her forward off her broom, which, without a rider, fell to the grass fifty feet below.

"Hey, hey, hey!" shouted a voice somewhere, coming nearer. Taylor grabbed the fist holding her dangling in mid-air, more afraid he'd let go than anything else. Pain seared up her right arm from her broken hand.

"You broke my fucking nose!" yelled Poliakov, shaking her roughly, drawing his own fist back.

"Break it up!" shouted the voice, which turned out to be Oliver's. He grabbed the back of Poliakov's robes, yanking hard as another player behind Taylor pulled her onto his broom, an arm around her waist keeping her in place. She was fighting to hold back tears, partly unsuccessful, cradling her broken hand with her other arm.

"Down!" barked Oliver furiously, and the crowd of players around him all flew to the ground and dismounted.

Taylor sank to her knees when was deposited on the grass and Oliver rounded on Poliakov.

"What happened?" he asked, angrily. The giant Beater still held the sleeve of his robes up to his bloody nose and pointed at Taylor.

"She punched me in the face, what the hell does it look like?" Standing next to him, George snorted.

"Yeah, after you deliberately swung a club at her! I saw it, Oliver." The redhead was fuming.

"Get off my pitch," growled Oliver, dismissing Poliakov with a snarl before turning to Taylor.

"Hey, wait!" said Poliakov, grabbing Wood's shoulder, "You're just going to believe that? This is bullshit!"

Oliver stepped close to the large Beater, but stood rigidly, and Taylor noticed again how tall he really was.

"Get. Off. My. Pitch," he said again, through gritted teeth. After a breathless moment, Poliakov finally backed down.

"This is bullshit," he repeated, walking away, his broom in hand. Oliver watched him go, waiting until he'd stepped past the bleachers before turning to the crowd of assembled players milling around to watch the scene.

"We're done here," barked Oliver, still noticeably livid. "You can go. I'll post names later tonight." Many just turned and left, most of them those who had been giving Taylor a hard time of things earlier. Others looked at her sympathetically, almost guiltily, before leaving, and George and Mel stood there worriedly. "Go on, George," Oliver said curtly, though Taylor thought he sounded a little calmer now. "She'll be fine," Oliver assured George, who just sighed and led a frowning Mel away by the elbow.

Oliver turned back to Taylor again and knelt down across from her, reaching carefully for her injured hand. She swiped at a few stray tears with the sleeve of her robes as Oliver took her small hand in his own and, despite the pain, she noticed the rough calluses on his fingers as he unlaced the leather hand guard and pulled it free, touching her palm gently. Turning over her hand, she winced and he almost tutted. "Hold on," he said, and turned to call one of his players over.

"Charles is majoring in Quidditch-specific medi-wizardry," explained Oliver, as a tall man with shaggy dark hair came and squatted down next to them.

"Oh, that's a beauty," said Charles. He grinned at her as he took her hand from Oliver's, tenderly feeling it sound at the wrist "Ouch," he said, eyebrows raised, evidently impressed, as he rummaged in his robe sleeves for his wand. "You probably broke all your metacarpals with this one."

"Personal record," Taylor managed to say, and the three of them laughed. Taylor's ragged laugh was cut short as pain shot through her hand again. Oliver winced.

"OK, no more laughing for you," said Charles in mock-severity, tapping the back of her left hand with his wand. For a moment the pain intensified until it felt like her hand was engulfed in flames, and then it was gone completely.

"Wow," she said, emphatically. She held up her hand, flexing it, opening and closing a fist a few times to work out a kink. "Thanks so much, I really owe you one."

"I may hold you to that," said Charles, winking at her roguishly. She blushed profusely, unable to come up with any response, and Oliver took her right hand to help her up to her feet.

"Erk!" squeaked Taylor, hand stinging unexpectedly. Oliver let go immediately—"Bloody hell, that one too?"—and Taylor examined it as she stood. Then she laughed, holding her hand out for Oliver to see.

"I split a knuckle on Poliakov's cheekbone," Taylor explained, absurdly pleased with herself as Oliver reached out to take her hand again.

"Good grief, you're a tough one," he said, shaking his head disbelievingly, still holding her hand. He turned it into an awkward sort of handshake and said, "Anyway. I'll see you around."

Now it was Taylor's turn to hold the handshake a little longer than necessary. She tilted her head to one side thoughtfully.

"Should I be reading too much into that?" she asked, eyes narrowed, and Oliver grinned, withdrawing his hand and crossing his arms over his chest.

"I'm saying nothing," he said. "List goes up at six."

"Alright, alright," said Taylor, "I'll be there." She collected her broom and club from where they'd fallen, mid-field, and hurried off the pitch.

Oliver stood and watched her go, and Charles came walking back, stopping just behind him to the right.

"I definitely want her," said Oliver, shaking a finger at her retreating back.

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," said Charles chuckling, and Oliver turned and punched him hard in the arm, indignant.

"You knew what I meant!"


	8. Nerves

Taylor closed the dorm room door behind her in a flurry of robes and Quidditch paraphernalia.

"How'd it go?" asked Chloe, not looking up from her mess of a bed where she was reading what seemed to be a large text on proper potion-brewing procedure.

"Remember that guy I didn't tell you about on the train?" said Taylor, putting her Firebolt in the back of her closet and kicking off her shoes. Chloe practically leapt to her feet as Taylor pulled off her socks and threw them in a corner.

"Yeah?" she said, eagerly, eyes wide in excitement.

"He's the captain," said Taylor, grinning, shrugging out of her robes. She pulled out the end of her braid and unraveled it quickly as she pulled a towel of the drying rack next to the door. "I have to get cleaned up before posting," she said, rushing out.

"Wait!" called Chloe, running to the door and leaning out into the hall. "You still haven't—" Taylor rounded the corner, disappearing from view, and Chloe stopped mid-sentence. "—told me anything," she finished, scowling.

Taylor returned a half-hour later wrapped in a towel, her long dark hair dripping profusely, her clothes tucked under one arm. When she tried to knob, it was surprisingly locked. She knocked loudly on the door, a puddle collecting in the hall at her feet.

"Chloe!" called Taylor through the thick door, still knocking. She heard the bedsprings squeak as weight shifted on them, and then Chloe's voice came from just the other side of the door.

"Yes?" said the voice, after a moment.

"Chloe, let me in! I'm cold." She looked anxiously down the hall. "And I'm in a towel!" she hissed. Someone walked past in an intersecting hall and saw Taylor out of the corner of his eye, doing a double-take, walking back into view and looking her over head to toe. Taylor waved, giving a very forced smile, and then gripped the doorknob, shaking the door on its hinges, practically shouting through gritted teeth, "_Please?_"

"Promise you'll tell me about this guy if I let you in?" came Chloe's voice.

"Yes!" squeaked Taylor, her voice an octave higher than normal

"Promise?"

"Promise!"

The doorknob turned and Taylor threw herself inside, leaning against the other side of door to close it behind her, breathing hard. Chloe was grinning, arms folded across her chest.

"That was uncalled for," scowled Taylor, as she pulled on jeans and a long- sleeved shirt.

"Hey, you weren't telling me anything," said Chloe, sitting on the edge of her bed. "So, tell."

"I met him on the train," said Taylor, using the towel to wring out her long hair, drying it as best she could. "Actually, his cat found its way into my compartment, and he came looking for the cat."

"He has a cat?" said Chloe, shrilly, jumping to her feet.

"Yes?" Taylor thought she must have missed something as she put one arm in the sleeve of a zip-front sweater.

"I love guys with cats," Chloe gushed, as Taylor got the other arm in the sleeve and zipped up the sweater. "I figure, they have to be somewhat sweet and gentle to have a cat, either that or get covered in scars," she continued. She looked up at Taylor's silly grin and smiled. "And I'm guessing he wasn't covered in scars," Chloe said, slyly.

"Oh no," agreed Taylor, "not hardly." Taylor turned to look at the clock and felt the beginnings of anxiety. The list was due up any minute.

She stalled for time, not wanting to be there when it went up. She walked to her desk and sat down, trying to work on a complicated arithmancy problem she'd left the night before. Unable to concentrate in the slightest, she put down her quill, turning in the chair.

"Come with me," said Taylor abruptly. Chloe had gone back to her book when Taylor had stopped spilling information, and now she looked up again as Taylor stood.

"Why?"

"For moral support, come on," said Taylor, pulling on Chloe's arm.

"No, Taylor, I have to write this six-foot essay for my potions class," said Chloe, frustrated, wrenching out of Taylor's grasp.

"Chloe," said Taylor, unbelieving, "it's Saturday, for crying out loud!"

"Yes," Chloe agreed, turning a page in her potions text. "But I'm prone to be a horrible procrastinator, so if I don't do this when I'm motivated, I probably never will."

Taylor rolled her eyes and stood with her fists on her hips.

"You locked me out of the room wearing only a towel!" she snapped angrily.

"Oh fine, I'm coming," said Chloe, annoyed, closing her book with a snap. "Truthfully, I'd rather do anything than potions." She shuddered.

"Thank you," said Taylor, pulling open the door. They walked down the hall and Taylor only became more and more nervous. She was sure it couldn't be healthy to have that many butterflies in one's stomach all at once.

Turning into the foyer, they saw a crowd of people around the bulletin board again. Taking a closer look, Taylor recognized them as the guys from tryouts.

"Bet none of them brought 'moral support,' " said Chloe, under her breath. Taylor swung a fist toward Chloe's arm but she jumped out of the way. "I'm just joking!" said Chloe, dancing out of reach. "I'm happy to be here, really."

As they neared the list, Taylor's stomach turned inside out and she stopped dead in her tracks. She turned abruptly and started walking the other direction.

"Hey, what's wrong?" asked Chloe, running after her, grabbing her elbow.

"Can't look," she said, shaking her head. "Do it for me, will you?" Chloe rolled her eyes.

"Oh my god, you really are the biggest wuss I've ever met."

"Oh shut up and go look, please?"

"OK, I'm going, I'm going."

Taylor watched Chloe forcefully elbow her way to the front of the crowd, scanning the short list. Unable to stand the suspense, Taylor turned away again, mind racing.

"Alright," she told herself breathlessly, "don't get your hopes up." Too late! screamed a voice in her head.

There was a hand on her shoulder and Taylor spun, breathless.

Chloe's eyes were downcast and Taylor's heart sank.

"Look, Taylor," she said, "I'm really sorry, but. . ."


	9. Congrats!

"Look, Taylor" said Chloe, "I'm really sorry, but. . ."

Taylor felt so completely hollow and empty, and she swallowed a lump the size of a chocolate frog. She looked down at her feet and furiously blinked back the beginnings of tears in the corner of her eyes.

". . .but they misspelled your name," Chloe finished.

Taylor's head snapped up in disbelief, and, not daring to hope, she squeaked, "What?"

"Yeah," nodded Chloe, still looking bitterly disappointed. "Managed to put an 'e' in there somehow." Taylor watched her friend's face slowly split into a giant grin.

"Are you serious?" squeaked Taylor. "Oh my god, I'm so excited!" She and Chloe gripped each other's shoulders and jumped up and down, emitting high- pitched sort of squeaks, attracting strange looks from others in the foyer.

"I'm so excited for you!" said Chloe, and, apparently unable to put her excitement into words, said, "Yay!" nearly shaking in her enthusiasm.

Over Chloe's shoulder, Taylor saw a familiar grinning face.

"Mel!" she called, running over.

"We made it!" said Mel, hugging Taylor elatedly. They then performed the little jumping and shrieking act Chloe and Taylor had just finished.

"Hey," said Taylor, "Mel, this is my roommate, Chloe." Mel and Chloe shook hands, smiling.

"Hey," called another voice behind them. Taylor turned to see Ann and Donna. Donna waved and Ann beamed at them. "You made it! Congrats!" said Donna, hugging both of them.

"Did you two come all the way down here just to say 'congrats'? " asked Mel.

"Well," said Ann, "actually we came to see the list. Oliver asked us all what we thought about half the group and then left without telling us what he decided." Taylor laughed, but Ann only shrugged. "He's like that," she said.

"So," said Donna, "we're certainly glad to have some more girls on the team. Last year it was just the two of us. Mind you, though, they still outnumber us two to one." Here she grinned.

"Yeah, I'd like those odds," said Chloe, standing at Taylor's elbow. Ann and Donna laughed and Taylor mentally kicked herself.

"Oh god, sorry," she said, pulling Chloe in front of her. "Everybody, this is Chloe, my roommate." Everyone shook hands with Chloe, genuinely smiling.

"Nice to meet you," said the last voice, very deep, gripping her hand tightly, and she looked up at a grinning face framed by flaming red hair.

"George!" said Taylor, surprised.

"You made it too!" exclaimed Mel, and she and Taylor grabbed George and started doing the hopping and squeaking routine again. George looked both confused and slightly alarmed, but joined in nonetheless, his squeaking much less glass-shatteringly high-pitched.

"Yay, go us!" he said feebly, laughing at their antics when they'd finally let him go. "So what's the plan?"

"Yeah, let's go celebrate," said Donna.

"Oh, I know this great place," said Mel, excitedly, "we could have a total girls' night out!"

George looked absolutely scandalized.

Mel must have seen the expression on his face, because she turned quickly and said, "Oh George, sorry, of course you're invited as well."

"No no," he said, biting back a fake sob. "I see how it is. Discriminating against me because I'm not 'one of the girls.' " Here he made furious quote marks in mid-air with his hands. He turned up his nose at them, saying, "Fine then." There was a false whimper in his voice. "I don't need you," he sniffed audibly, "I don't need any of you!" And he turned on his heel, storming away.

The whole group of women broke down giggling, and waved to George who had turned back, smiling broadly, before literally skipping out the door.

Taylor shook her head, still chuckling, and Chloe tapped her on the shoulder.

"If you guys are going out, I'll just head back to the room and finish that essay," she said quietly, smiling resignedly. Taylor was about to protest, but Ann beat her to it.

"No no no," she said, having apparently overheard the comment. "No, Chloe, come with us, please? It'd be fun."

"Really?" she asked, and everyone nodded.

"Alright, so long as I'm not a fifth wheel."

"Of course not," said Donna.

"So, you guys all dressed warm enough for a walk?" said Mel, heading for the dark outside the door.

"What," said Taylor as she followed, surprised, "it's that close?"

"Yeah," Mel said, nodding. "It's just off-campus."

Chloe nearly did a double take as she walked, tripping over something in the dark.

"There IS an off-campus?"

"Of course, there's a small town just past the Quidditch field," replied Ann, looking startled. "What did you think?"

"Well, my last school was in the middle of nowhere, to keep the Muggles out, you know," said Chloe, shrugging.

"True, but Wandslake is supposed to be sort of incognito, isn't it? To all appearances, this is just a normal Muggle college," explained Donna.

"Yeah, a normal college that just happens to be built in the middle of the most desolate and inaccessible part of the Scottish countryside," said Taylor dryly. Mel laughed.

"I said it was a small town, didn't I?" said Ann, defensively.

Mel led them past the Quidditch pitch into a thicket of ridiculously high trees, growing so close together that Taylor felt she was inside a giant hedge of some kind. Obviously the trees were there to block the Quidditch games from view, but at the moment they seemed more a hindrance than anything else. Branches scraped her hands and face as she pushed through the thick foliage in the dark. From the sounds of twigs snapping (and a great deal of swearing) filling the air around her, Taylor could tell she wasn't the only one having problems.

"How often do you come this way, exactly, Mel?" asked Taylor, exasperatedly.

"I must admit I don't recall it ever being quite this daunting a trip," said Mel, stopping to untangle some of her hair from a branch just above her head. "The groundskeeper must have let them go a bit over the summer."

"A bit?" said Chloe, hysterically.

"This is ridiculous," said Ann, stopping dead in her tracks. In the dark, everyone crashed into her from behind as she pulled her wand out of her pocket, shouting, "_Arboreus amputo!_"

An average-person-sized hole suddenly appeared between the trees in front of them, and they all tumbled out onto a cement parking lot with several cries of surprise between the five of them.

"Told you we'd make it, didn't I?" said Mel, in a squashed sort of way, from the bottom of the heap.

Chloe and Taylor had been in the back of the group, so they were on top of the human dog pile. Chloe picked herself up, dusting off the knees of her jeans, and glanced up at the disheveled-looking structure in front of her. Taylor watched her jaw drop.

"_This?_" She pointed up at the building. "This is your 'great place?' " said Chloe skeptically.


	10. The Diner

"_This?_" said Chloe, skeptically. "This is your 'great place?' "

"Well," said Mel, her voice muffled, the right side of her face pressed into the pavement by two people still trying to scramble off her. "Yeah."

Taylor looked up at the red neon-outlined sign, reading "Tom's Diner." Everything except the apostrophe was flickering, buzzing a sporadic rhythm and lighting Chloe's shocked face with a red glow. Through the windows, Taylor could see it was a very normal, if very empty, diner.

Three sides of the building had big windows warped from years of Scottish inclement weather so that her distant reflection in the glass looked oddly stretched in all directions. She smiled at her strange likeness and her grin extended at least three feet across.

Looking past her reflection (and Cheshire Cat grin) into the diner itself, she noticed that along the walls were several booths, the leather covering the seats and seat backs visibly cracked from age. Two overhead lights were flickering, as if in harmony with the neon sign outside, the red glow still casting strange shadows on the human dog pile still trying to right itself on the pavement to Taylor's right.

By now Mel had got to her feet, and she smiled, trying in vain to wipe some dirt off the front of her jacket. She looked at Chloe, who was still staring at the diner, mouth agape in bewilderment.

"What were you expecting, a bar?" Mel asked, wiping a spot of mud off the end of her long nose.

"Maybe," said Chloe, sheepishly.

"I don't drink," said Mel flatly. "Come on."

She led them all inside, pushing the door open, and Chloe looked thoughtfully up at the sign again, mouthing the words, "Tom's Diner."

"You know," she said to Taylor, as a bell above their heads chimed their entrance. "There's this song—"

"I've heard it," said Taylor quickly, shuddering despite herself. She'd also heard Chloe singing in the shower the night before. It was not an experience she was eager to repeat.

Inside the diner, Mel shouted a casual "Heya," to the middle-aged woman wiping down the counter. The portly woman with a stern, no-nonsense face looked up sharply, though her gaze softened when she saw Mel. In fact, she grinned, throwing down the rag she'd been using and bustling around the end of the counter. She enveloped Mel in a giant hug, pulling back after a moment and holding her at arms length.

" 'Ave ye grown o'er the summer, then?" asked the woman, her accent reminding Taylor of Hagrid, the groundskeeper at Hogwarts.

"Don't be silly, Ania," laughed Mel. "If I grow anymore I'll be eight feet tall."

Taylor had to admit this wasn't far from the truth. Mel was probably the tallest person she knew, towering over everyone else in nearly any situation.

"This is Chloe, Donna, Ann, and Taylor," Mel was saying, pointing at each of them in turn. Taylor smiled at the woman when Mel's finger reached her.

"And this is Ania," Mel said, introducing the woman, who reached out to shake everyone's hands. "She's like my second mother," said Mel.

"Recognize you two-" said Ania, pointing from Ann to Donna and back, "-yer been in 'ere afore. Nice teh meet yer all."

"Hey, can we head back to the big booth?" asked Mel, hooking a thumb towards the back of the diner.

"Sorry, love," said Ania, wringing her hands in her apron. "We got a large group 'ere an' all already, nearly twice yer lot, and they keep on yammerin' fer more drinks-"

As if on cue, a voice carried to them from the back.

"Hey, Ania!" called the voice, and they all turned to see someone come skidding around the corner of the bar. "Could we get some more—oh sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

Taylor's jaw dropped.

"George!" said Ann, almost accusingly. The redhead grinned sheepishly at her, ears going red. He shrugged his shoulders and leaned nonchalantly against the counter.

"How did—?" said Chloe, pointing at George. "We just—" she pointed over her shoulder at the door, her brows knit in confusion.

"You left just a moment before us!" said Taylor. "How in the world did you get here first?"

"Let's just say I found a short cut," he said, smiling mischievously.

"That's gotta be a helluva short cut," commented Donna.

"I bet he didn't have to face that Thicket of Doom outside," Chloe said bitterly, and Mel shot her a look.

"Well actually," George began, but he was cut off by a chorus of voices coming from the back.

"George!" called the loudest voice. "What happened to those drinks, eh?"

Ania rolled her eyes heavenward and bustled back behind the counter, shaking her head.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" she bellowed at the back booth, making Taylor and Chloe jump noticeably. "Don' get yer knickers in a twist!" She disappeared through swinging doors into the kitchen, and they could hear her muttering irritably as she set out glasses.

"Well, come on, you'd better come this way," said George, who then turned and walked back towards his booth.

Taylor glanced sideways at Mel, who just shrugged and strode after George. The rest of them hurried to follow.

"Look who I found," George was saying to someone, as they rounded the corner.


	11. Discussion

"Look who I found," George was saying, as he, Mel, Ann, Donna, Taylor and Chloe rounded the corner, and Taylor was amazed to see the rest of the Quidditch team—the male portion—crammed into a very large, 3/4 circular booth.

"Perfect," said Oliver, smiling. He was sitting on one end of the booth, and he stood to let George sit down. He clasped his hands together happily and grinned. "Now the whole team's here, we can do introductions now instead of wasting time at practice tomorrow."

Many around him groaned. He seemed not to notice.

"Come on, sit down, sit down," he motioned for them to sit in the booth, forcing those already sitting, previously packed in pretty close, to squish to sardine-like capacity. Taylor and Chloe were the last to sit down, and Chloe was close to falling off the end.

Oliver, still standing, seemed to be the only one who thought having twelve people in one booth was nothing out of the ordinary.

Taylor surveyed the table in front of her and saw an array of half-eaten meals and an excess of French fries. Chloe noticed the fries too, and her eyebrows rose appreciatively.

"Anyone mind if I finish this off?" she asked, pointing at a particularly full plate.

At this, Oliver did a double-take and seemed to see Chloe for the first time.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking confused as Chloe dipped a fry in a giant puddle of ketchup that was oozing across the table. "Who are you?"

"This is Chloe," said Taylor quickly, as Chloe's mouth was full. "My roommate."

"Oh," he said, one eyebrow raised quizzically. "Right. Well, in all fairness, everybody, this is Chloe." Chloe smiled awkwardly and gave a goofy little finger wave at everyone else at the table. Those who could move their arms (many couldn't, being crowded into the booth so tightly) waved back, and everyone said "Hi Chloe," in a way very reminiscent of an AA meeting.

Chloe leaned close to Taylor.

"I don't think I've ever been this uncomfortable in my life," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"Sorry!" Taylor whispered back, apologetically. In front of them, Oliver was continuing the introductions.

"This is Taylor, one of our new Beaters—first-year. I'm sure you remember her from the ruckus today," he said, and Taylor's thoughts flashed back to her fistfight with Poliakov. She bit the corner of her lip and blushed as she waved and people said their hellos.

"Also new is Mel, a fourth-year Seeker, and that's Donna and Ann, both fifth-year Chasers. You all know George by now," Oliver nodded at the redhead, who grinned and did a haughty Miss America wave, every now and then blowing a kiss.

Taylor smiled at George's antics, but then paid careful attention as Oliver introduced the other players she didn't know. She'd already met Charles—the medic—but she didn't know Gary, Paul, Kyle, Richard, or John, and she tried to memorize their names and faces.

"Now," said Oliver, "since we're all here, I figure we can have those one-on-one meetings now as well. I just want to sit down with each of you and have a discussion about your role on the team."

"Oh goody," said Mel, just loud enough for Taylor to hear, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I'll just start from this end," Oliver said, pointing at Charles on the other side of the booth, "and work my way around so we don't have to mess with people trying to get out of that mess." He waved a hand at the twelve of them, crammed tightly into the booth.

Charles stood up and followed Oliver to an adjacent table, and everyone in the booth let out a sigh of relief as people shifted over, giving each person about an inch more of the bench seat.

After only a moment, Charles returned, sitting next to Chloe as Paul, on the other end of the booth, went to Oliver's table.

"That was quick," said Taylor, looking past Chloe to gape at Charles in surprise.

"Well, everyone who was already on the team has been practicing together for a while, we pretty much already know our place on the team," said Charles, casually biting one of the many fries still littering the table. "Mind you," he said, shaking the decapitated fry in the direction of Oliver's makeshift conference table, "I think Paul there is in for a surprise, as you're going to be competition for first-string Beater."

Taylor choked back a laugh.

"You're mad; I'm only a first-year!" she said. "And I'm not even that good," she added, voicing the concern she'd been feeling since making the team. "Am I?"

Charles just shrugged and ate the rest of the fry, plus several others. Glancing sideways, he leaned forward to whisper, "Well—just watch."

The next moment, Paul appeared at the table again, sliding in next to Charles. For a fraction of a second he shot Taylor a glare before turning back to start a conversation with Richard, across the table.

"See?" said Charles, quietly. "What did I tell you?"

Chloe seemed to have been listening to this exchange, enthralled. She hadn't taken her eyes off Charles, and when the conversation ended, she hurriedly offered him her hand.

"I'm Chloe Sullivan," she said, grinning, as Charles shook her hand, smiling warmly.

"Still feeling uncomfortable?" Taylor asked Chloe quietly, grinning.

"Shut it," said Chloe, before turning her attention back to Charles.

"So Charles, tell me. . ." was all Taylor heard before Mel tapped on her elbow. Taylor turned to find Mel looking vaguely distressed.

"What's up?" she asked.

"What do you think he's going to say?" said Mel. "I'm all panicky, this whole 'singling-out' business gives me the creeps, makes me feel like I'm going to be interrogated." They were both getting nearer and nearer the other end of the booth.

"Well," said Taylor, now starting to feel nervous herself, "he's singling-out everybody, though, right?"

"Well, yes, but still. . ." said Mel, scooting sideways into the last space on the bench seat.

They sat in brooding silence for a few minutes, until Ann came back and sat down across from Mel, smiling encouragingly and giving her a double thumbs-up. Mel stood and walked over to where Oliver sat.

Now respectively on-deck, Taylor was getting even more nervous. She had been fine until Mel had started making it a big deal; now her insides were twisting themselves into knots.

What felt like an eternity later, Mel slid into the seat opposite her, grinning madly.

"What'd he say?" Taylor hissed, leaning as far as she could over the table.

"He said I was the best Seeker he's seen since Harry Potter!" She said this in a shrill, excited voice, clapping her hands together in delight. Taylor frowned.

"Mel, Harry Potter was a year behind me in school," she said.

"Yes, but still, it's Harry Potter!"

"Taylor! You're up!" Oliver was looking over at her from the other table, and Taylor sprang to her feet, which seemed to carry her on of their own accord.

"Sorry," she said, sitting down across from him, twisting her hands together in her lap and looking down at the table. The hanging lamp above them was rocking gently back and forth in the air conditioning, and the circle of yellow light it threw down on them swayed in harmony on the table below.

Oliver leaned forward, his face lit oddly by the hanging lamp, lacing his fingers together on the table, pursing his lips thoughtfully.

Taylor was forcefully reminded of oh so many cop-movies, and felt more than ever as if she was being interrogated. She fidgeted.

"Here's what I see," said Oliver, finally breaking the awkward silence. "You couldn't hit squat at tryouts."

Taylor immediately went on the defensive, looking up angrily, opening her mouth to argue. Then she thought better of it and bit down hard on her lip, making her hands into fists under the table. The last thing she wanted to do was risk her apparently already uncertain spot on the team by verbally assaulting the captain.

"All of your Bludgers only grazed people," he continued, "or knocked their broom helter-skelter. So, either you have incredibly bad aim and incredibly good luck—"

"Why'd you have me on, then?" Taylor burst out, sitting forward and banging her fists on the table, unable to quash her fury any longer.

"Because I can't deny that your methods are effective."

This was not what she had expected. Now she was just confused.

"What?"

Oliver leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

"I don't think it's by accident, I think you have perfect aim." He looked at her levelly. Taylor shrugged.

"I suppose," she said. "I wouldn't say perfect, but—"

"I would," he interrupted. "You have absolutely perfect aim, none of your little maneuvers would have worked otherwise. You just don't make people your targets. I don't pretend to know why, but like I said, your methods are unorthodox but they certainly work. You dispatched everyone on that pitch pretty efficiently, and without any injuries."

Taylor just shrugged again, and Oliver's face suddenly split in a grin.

"What?" she asked, apprehensively.

"No injuries," he said slowly, "except Poliakov."

"Oh," she said, eyes wide in understanding. "Look, I'm sorry about that, my temper—"

"Yes," said Oliver, "the only thing I'm really even remotely worried about is your temper. You've got a short fuse. . ." Taylor grimaced and looked down at her hands. "But I'd have done the same. Poliakov deserved it."

She glanced quickly up to see Oliver grinning.

"Anyway, I figure you'll be a starter for the team," said Oliver, standing and walking back towards the booth where the rest of the team (plus Chloe) sat.

Taylor followed suit, falling in step and saying, surprised, "What? A starter? But I—"

"You may not break any bones," Oliver said, "but you get the job done. Better than most of the bone-breakers, for that matter. You might be the best Beater I've ever seen."

Taylor was glad he was facing the other direction and couldn't see her blushing furiously at his praise.


	12. Practice

Taylor woke early the next morning—very very early, she felt—when her small dorm room was suddenly and violently filled with ridiculously bright sunlight. She rolled onto her side, facing away from the windows, shutting her eyes tight against the glare.

"Chloe, are you mad?" she mumbled. "Shut the curtains, it's too early yet." She pulled the thick comforter over her head, covering her in semi-darkness again.

"Get up," said a voice from the foot of her bed. "You're late."

"It's Sunday," grumbled Taylor, her voice barely audible through the blankets. "There's no class on Sunday."

"Not class," said the voice, pulling the comforter out of her grasp and off the bed entirely. "Practice."

Practice? she thought. Practice for what? Then one fact penetrated the thick cloud of fog that seemed to be wrapped around her mind: that voice was male.

"Oliver?" she said, rolling over and squinting against the light. A familiar profile stood out against the window. "How the hell did you get in here?" she asked, sitting up and stifling a yawn.

"I've got everyone's keys. I'm the captain," he said, as if this actually explained anything.

Across the room, Chloe had buried her head under her pillow.

"Taylor, make him go away, I'm tired," came Chloe's voice, muffled and groggy sounding.

"I'm not leaving till she gets up for practice," said Oliver, looking down at Chloe, whose fingers tightened on the edges of her pillow, pulling it more tightly down over her head.

"Take her then, and leave me in peace," she groaned.

"Chloe!"

"You heard her, come on," said Oliver, laughing.

"Traitor," Taylor hissed at Chloe as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting chilly floor.

Opposite her, from under the covers, Chloe waved an arm in a gesture that clearly meant, "Whatever."

Taylor stood and turned her attention to Oliver, who was still looking down at her, arms folded across his chest.

"Are you just going to stand there? How d'you expect me to change?"

Oliver rolled his eyes and walked out of the room, shutting the door with a loud _bang_. (Chloe's groan could be heard even through the pillow.) Taylor leapt across to the door and locked it.

"You seem to forget, I still have keys," Oliver said, derisively, from behind the locked door. "You have thirty seconds, and then I'm coming back in there, ready or not."

"You wouldn't," she said, disbelievingly.

"Try me."

Slightly fewer than thirty seconds later, Oliver was dragging Taylor down the hall by her elbow. She had her Firebolt in that hand, which made for awkward walking, and her club was in her free hand. She had half a mind to beat him over the head with it and go back to sleep, but she decided that probably wasn't wise.

She tucked her club in the folds of her robes, her new brilliantly green ones in disarray, having had only just pulled them over her head when Oliver burst back in again. She'd shouted in alarm when the door had flung open, banging against Chloe's dresser. Chloe had groaned and threw her alarm clock to get them to shut up.

Now Oliver was dragging her through the dorm foyer and she fingered the large alarm-clock-shaped bruise already growing on her forehead. She had to admit, Chloe still had deadly accurate aim, even very early in the morning. If she could fly, she'd have made a good Chaser...

As they stepped—or were dragged, depending whose perspective—out the door into the bright sunlight, Taylor squinted down at the ground so she wouldn't trip over any cracks in the cement path.

Looking down, she noticed that her leather shin-guards—the thick padding Beaters wore—which she had pulled on haphazardly in her haste, were coming undone, the laces unraveling as she watched. She managed to pull them off and tuck them inside her robes as well, using her free hand without disturbing Oliver's grip on the elbow of the opposite arm.

Resignedly, she allowed him to pull her all the way across the campus to the Quidditch field. He didn't speak at all as they walked, and Taylor could only assume he was annoyed that she'd overslept. Or rather, she thought, she hadn't known about practice at all. Whoops.

Thoughts raced across her mind: excuses, apologies, the occasional knock-knock joke.

She kept opening her mouth to say something and then changing her mind. Explanations and angry blame-shift retorts kept vying for the use of her vocal chords in turn, making her silent.

Thoughts like, 'I'm sorry, it'll never happen again,' were chased quickly out by 'It's not my fault, I didn't know there was practice this morning,' or 'If I had the chance, I'd climb all over you...'

Taylor did a mental double-take. What was that last one?

"Beg your pardon?" said Oliver, interrupting her thoughts, and Taylor's heart stopped.

"What?" said Taylor, quickly, trying not to sound guilty.

Dear God, she thought frantically, did I actually say that out loud?

"Thought you said something," said Oliver, still leading her on but looking back to talk to her as well.

"Um," she said, casting around for something, anything, to say. "I said, I'm sorry. For—for being late?" she finished, lamely.

"Oh don't worry about it," Oliver said, really smiling at her for the first time that morning. Taylor's momentary panic ebbed away, softened involuntarily by his broad smile.

After another few moments, they were standing on the pitch, where the rest of the team was milling around, many leaning against their broomsticks, looking tired.

Mel, in particular, looked about as tired as she felt, and she made her way towards her when Oliver finally let go of her elbow to talk to some of the older players.

"Hey there, did Oliver roust you out of bed this morning too?" she inquired, good-naturedly. Mel just looked at her quizzically, if tiredly, and raised one eyebrow.

"No, I was here at seven like he said," said Mel. "I think George said something about a rude awakening though."

Taylor grinned lopsidedly, trying to imagine George being woken up in circumstances similar to her own.

"Anyway, I was paying attention last night when Oliver went over practice times," Mel continued.

"Did he really?" asked Taylor. "Evidently I missed it. So I woke to him in my room shouting at me to get up." She nodded in Oliver's direction.

"You mean Oliver was in your room?" Mel said, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal.

"Yes," said Taylor, somewhat befuddled at Mel's reaction. "Why?"

"While you were just in your nightclothes? That's enough to give a girl heart palpitations," said Mel, letting out a breathy sigh.

Taylor regarded her friend with keen interest, a smile spreading slowly across her face.

"Mel, do you have a thing for Oliver?"

It was more accusation than anything else.

"What?" said Mel, looking at her sharply. "No, don't be silly. He's too young for me anyway."

"Too young!" cried Taylor. "He's in your year!"

"Well, yes, yes," said Mel, waving a hand indifferently. "But I go for older men."

"Fine, fine, whatever you say," conceded Taylor, shaking her head incredulously. "Good grief," she mumbled.

Oliver was still talking to Ann and Donna, several feet away, and a few words of their conversation drifted on the breeze to where Taylor and Mel stood.

"He is Scottish though," said Mel suddenly, tilting her head to one side, thoughtfully. "You have to love that accent."

"Oh, you do indeed," breathed Taylor, absentmindedly, her attention obviously elsewhere. Mel followed her gaze to where Oliver still stood nearby, and grinned.

"Taylor, dear," she said, and Taylor looked back to see Mel grinning wickedly. Her face abruptly changed to a look of innocent curiosity, and she said, "Do YOU have a thing for our gallant Quidditch Captain?"

"Who's got a thing for Oliver?" someone asked loudly, and both Mel and Taylor whirled around to see that George had snuck up behind them without their noticing.

"Nobody," Taylor said, too quickly, glancing around to see if anyone else had heard George. Next to her, she could sense Mel gesturing animatedly in her direction, but when she turned to fix her tall friend with a glare, Mel was looking innocently out into space, making vague comments about the weather.

"I see," said George, trying to keep a straight face, eyebrows raised almost past his hairline.

"I don't know what either of you are talking about," Taylor said sulkily, and was relieved when Oliver suddenly called for the team's attention, effectively changing the subject.


	13. Bludger

Taylor's first real practice was a grueling one. Oliver started off with non-Quidditch-specific warm-ups ("More running," groaned Mel), which had Taylor winded before she even got on a broom. Then she and the other Beaters were given complicated aerial batting exercises with weighted clubs, so not only did she feel ridiculous swinging away at nothing, but the clubs charmed to be heavier than usual made her arms ache after only a few minutes. It didn't help, either, that George kept cracking jokes at her ("You look like you're fighting an invisible hippogriff!") and making her lose focus and have to start all over.

It was much different than what she expected. Back at Hogwarts, Roger Davies had been a gruff, no-nonsense dictator when she'd played for him, and then Cho Chang had taken a similar stance. Practice was always quiet, serious, focused. Any slacking off would earn you extra early practices. This, in comparison, was like Flitwick teaching banishing charms: total chaos.

Which is odd, thought Taylor once, ducking as Mel whizzed past after the Snitch. Wood was a much more demanding captain—George hadn't been joking about the exhausting practices—but the overall mood was much lighter than what she was used to. They were all given arduous drills and complex flight patterns to perfect, but every now and then George would make everyone laugh with his antics. Even Oliver, Taylor noted. The Chasers' drills had a tendency to turn into races or intense games of tag until Oliver noticed and set them to rights with a grin.

Several times during the practice, people told her to relax. Once, when she was getting frustrated with a particularly nasty exercise in Bludger-evasion (Oliver, she found, planned for anything and everything, including being somehow deprived of her club mid-game), Charles came over from the goal-hoops and squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

After calming again (he'd taken her by surprise and she almost took a swing at him, club or no), she welcomed the distraction, pulling out her club again and sending the attacking Bludger flying for good.

"You could really use to lighten up, you know," said Charles, grinning broadly once he'd flown back into comfortable conversation range (having given her plenty of room when the club reappeared). Taylor felt a pang of hurt at his words and opened her mouth to reply when he pre-empted her.

"No offense or anything," he continued quickly, holding his hands up in defense (she was, after all, still gripping the club), "but it just doesn't look like you're having fun up here."

Taylor paused, looking out across the pitch as she considered this thought. If she was honest with herself, it was terrifyingly true. When did that happen? she thought frantically. When did Quidditch become a chore?

"I don't know," she said, shrugging nervously, remembering Charles probably wanted some kind of response. "I'm just too worried about getting it all right, you know?"

Charles shook his head, laughing disbelievingly.

"Taylor, you're a great player, you don't have to prove anything to anyone," he said. Despite herself, Taylor glanced over at Oliver, who was working nearby with the Chasers, gesturing animatedly. Evidently Charles had seen, as he gave a snort and continued, "Especially not to him."

Taylor tried fervently not to blush, adopting instead an air of casual indifference, and asked, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Charles just shrugged, smiling thoughtfully to himself.

"Oliver picked you," he said, simply. He grinned, adding, "High enough praise in itself, as the man'll do practically anything to win."

"So I've heard," said Taylor, raising an eyebrow in a look of wry good-humor.

"Hey, who's that?" interrupted George, who'd just appeared at Taylor's elbow. He was pointing down at the pitch, and both Taylor and Charles followed his gaze to see where he had indicated. A tall man in tatty old robes was squinting up at them all, and Taylor immediately recognized him.

"It's Professor Lupin," she said. "What's he doing here?"

"Dunno," said George, as they watched Oliver disentangle himself from an intense Chaser drill and fly down to meet Lupin. At Taylor's shoulder, Charles just shrugged.

"Maybe he—whoops!" George had begun to suggest something but his eyes went wide as he saw something over Taylor's shoulder. Taylor and Charles both turned to see a Bludger making a straight path for the three of them, and each made a sort of strangled cry as they tried to move out of the way. Three pairs of knees knocked together, impeding their escape and it was too close-quarters for either Beater to do anything useful with a club.

"Lookout!" cried both Charles and George, flattening themselves to their broomsticks. Taylor threw herself backwards off her broom, catching herself with her knees, but not fast enough. She squeezed her eyes shut as the Bludger whooshed past, grumbling loudly, and scraped across her face.

Taylor clambered back onto her broom and both hands flew to her nose, which was now in throbbing pain. She screwed her eyes shut against the initial sting and felt the first trickle of blood on her fingertips. Drawing one hand back, she opened her eyes and saw the wet crimson smear across her fingers.

George and Charles were looking across at her in concern, but she felt more ridiculous than anything else. Honestly, she couldn't move fast enough to avoid one measly Bludger?

"Here, tilt your head back," George said, hurriedly, reaching out a hand, but Taylor slapped it away.

"I dow how to hadle a bloody dose," she snapped, pinching her nostrils shut and squinting watering eyes up at the sky. Charles was still nearby as well, but didn't seem as alarmed as George. Taylor figured he probably usually had much worse injuries to deal with.

"You'll be alright?" Charles asked.

Taylor just nodded, nose still smarting enough to make her eyes water. "I—I dink I'll just lad for a sec, okay?"

"Yeah, Oliver's waving us down anyway," said Charles, starting to urge his broomstick down. Around them, others were descending in small groups, no doubt discussing what Lupin had said that had been enough to make Oliver delay practicing for even just a moment.

Taylor touched down on the grass and pulled her broomstick up, propping herself against it as she let go of her nose for a moment. Her nosebleed seemed to have stopped, so she couldn't understand why there was still blood dripping down the front of her brilliantly yellow practice robes.

"Hurry up, you lot," Oliver was saying, and the team crowded closer together, wrinkling their noses at the combined sweaty smell of twelve Quidditch players. "I have to cut practice short this morning—"

"Morning, ha," began George, as it was well past lunch, but he quailed under the furious glare Oliver now turned on him.

"But I'll expect you all to be on the pitch promptly at six tomorrow night," Oliver continued, glancing around at each player in turn. Taylor didn't catch his eye, looking down as she realized she'd split her lip too, and somehow she felt his eyes linger on the top of her head a bit longer than was really necessary.

"Team dismissed!" he finished, and the crowd dispersed towards the two opposite ends of the pitch. Taylor assumed the entrances to the separate locker rooms must be near the goalposts. She followed Mel, who was following Donna, and wiped at the split lip with the back of her hand. She was walking towards the near end of the field, when she felt a hand fall heavy on her shoulder.

"Taylor," Oliver was saying as she turned, "I'd appreciate your attention when I'm—oh!" He saw the blood oozing from her lower lip and his slight frown turned to worry, brow furrowed.

Taylor tried to wave off his concern, embarrassed—it was just a split lip, after all, about the mildest Quidditch injury there was—but Oliver had suddenly stepped forward, producing an old white handkerchief from the inside of his robes. Before Taylor could really react, Oliver was putting cool fingers under her chin, tilting her face up to his as he used the other hand to dab away the blood with the handkerchief.

"Oh," said Taylor, taken aback, her voice muffled slightly by the handkerchief. "Er, thanks," she finished. She watched Oliver's face as he concentrated on her mouth, when suddenly his eyes glanced up to meet hers and he stopped. Taylor could feel herself starting to blush.

And someone behind them coughed.

They both started, and sprang apart embarrassedly.

Lupin was standing a few feet away, looking haggard and worn—more so than usual, even, Taylor thought—and seemed to be waiting patiently for Oliver, though he was obviously trying to hide a faint smile at their behavior.

"Er, hello Professor Lupin," Taylor said into the awkward silence that followed.

"Hello Taylor, good practice?" Lupin asked, fingering the curve of his nose. Taylor mirrored the action and winced.

"Runaway Bludger," she explained.

After another awkward few moments' silence, Taylor impulsively reached to pull the now blood-spotted handkerchief out of Oliver's hand.

"I'll get this cleaned up and return it," she said, hurriedly, to Oliver. "Good to see you, Professor," said Taylor, nodding her goodbye to Lupin (who smiled in return) before turning and waling as quickly as possible towards the goalposts.


	14. Nose

Taylor reached the edge of the field and nearly dove behind the stands in her hurry to get out of sight. Unfortunately, someone else was coming around the corner at the same time and the two of them collided and fell in a flurry of robes and surprised noises. In the melee, a bony elbow managed to tweak Taylor's already ill-treated nose and she shrieked involuntarily.

"Blimey, Taylor, sorry!" Ann was scrambling to her feet as Taylor screwed her eyes shut against the sting. "Sorry, I was just coming to get you."

"S'all right," said Taylor, taking the offered hand and pulling herself up. She touched her nose gently and winced again. "Ooh, that's tender."

"Come on, I'll show you to the locker room," Ann said. "And we'll see what we can do about that nose of yours."

The route Ann showed Taylor was full of twists and turns, and by the time they reached the door marked "WOMEN'S LOCKERS" Taylor was thoroughly lost. Ann pushed the door open for her and she stepped inside, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'll never remember the way," she sighed, "I'll have to follow someone each time."

"Don't worry," said Donna, who'd noticed them come in. She was pulling her practice robes off over her head, getting tangled halfway in a necklace she was wearing. Her voice now came through the thick cloth, sounding muffled. "Supposedly it's designed so that no one who doesn't know where it is can't find it, you know?"

Taylor just looked blankly at Ann, who laughed.

"I can't explain it," said Ann, "but now you've been here, any time you go looking for the locker room you'll find it, no matter what route you take. The only-accessible-by-those-who-already-know-where-it-is thing on the locker rooms is just a precaution against people from the opposing team trying to get in."

"Against people from the opposite sex, more like," said Mel, almost bitterly, wrapping herself in a towel as she stepped out of the shower. All three of the other women turned to look at her in surprise, and she stopped. "What?" she said, defensively. "So I've gone looking for the men's locker room before, give me a break. Quidditch guys are hot."

The room erupted in laughter and everyone went back to what they were doing. Ann stayed nearby as Taylor sat heavily on a bench, exhausted from the practice. She crinkled her nose experimentally and winced once more, looking up at Ann hopefully. "You said something about fixing my nose?"

Ann grimaced and folded her long arms across her chest. "I don't think any of us should try anything after all," she decided finally. Taylor scowled, and then regretted it ("_Ow!_").

Mel had finished dressing and walked over to them, wringing out her long blond hair. She stepped in front of Taylor and bent down to eye-level, propping her hands on her knees and regarding Taylor's nose with much scrutiny.

"Yes," agreed Mel, "it does look a bit off." She leaned to the left, eyes still fixed reflectively on Taylor's nose. Then she leaned back to the right and recoiled with a sound like "eeyurgh!"

"What?" asked Taylor, sitting up hurriedly.

"Nothing!" exclaimed Mel, standing and backing away. "Your nose isn't crooked! I don't know what you're talking about!"

"No one said anything about being crooked!" said Taylor, alarmed, glancing back at Ann. "Is it crooked?"

"I think you should probably go talk to one of the school medi-wizards," sighed the older Chaser, worriedly.

"Oh, pish, I'll just go get Charles," said Mel, "he's the team medic, isn't he?" Before anyone could say anything, she grabbed her wand and dissapparated with a loud _crack!_

"Well where'd she think she's going?" Taylor asked, both she and Ann turning to Donna, who was just pulling on her clothes after getting out of the shower. Taylor was trying to figure out what Mel had planned, and didn't hear or notice another _crack!_ "I thought Charles would be in—"

"—the buff," Donna finished, with a lopsided grin, nodding behind them. They both spun to see a very self-satisfied Mel next to a very disgruntled Charles, who was clad only in a towel wrapped hurriedly around his waist. It seemed Mel had pulled him directly out of the shower; it looked like his shaggy hair still had shampoo in it.

"What about the only-accessible-by-those-who-already-know-where-it-is thing?" asked Taylor, dumbfounded.

"I said I went looking," Mel grinned. "I never said I didn't find it."

"Excuse me," interjected Charles, irritably, his dripping hair beginning to make a sudsy puddle on the floor. "I was told it was an emergency?"

"Yes," Mel agreed, sobering. "It's Taylor's nose."

"Oh for god's sake," muttered Taylor, embarrassed that she was causing such a commotion.

"She got hit with a Bludger, I think," offered Donna, ignoring Taylor's exclamation.

"I know that, I was there," snapped Charles, "I thought she said it was fine."

"It is—" Taylor began, but Mel was pulling the medi-wizard-in-training over to examine the nose in question and she interrupted.

"Look here," said Mel, and Charles leaned down inches from Taylor's face just as the woman beside him had done a few minutes earlier. "Lean to your left," instructed Mel (Charles obeyed), "and now—"

"Eeyurgh!" said Charles, springing back.

"Would you all please stop doing that? It's very off-putting!" Taylor was indignant, crossing her arms and scowling (as much as her nose would let her).

"I think you've broken it," said Charles, seriously, studying her again from a few inches distance. "It's incredibly lucky Oliver cut practice short," he continued, gently touching her nose to inspect the injury as he spoke. "You could have really hurt yourself out there. One in a million chance, really, very lucky," he muttered.

"What do you—_ow!_—mean by that?" asked Taylor, cringing away from his prodding fingers.

"Sorry," Charles said, automatically, still fiddling with her nose. "Oliver's obsessed with Quidditch," he explained. "I mean, the man's never missed even a practice in four years, I can't imagine something important enough for him to cancel anything, even just the last half-hour of training."

"That's true," commented Ann sagely, still hovering nearby.

"Well, actually," Donna said, contemplatively, "wasn't there one time he left in the middle of a game last year?"

"Near finals, I think" Charles agreed, remembering now. "He just flew off the field without a backwards glance. Dom was really angry."

"Dom?" asked Taylor, still patiently sitting while Charles was now pulling his wand out and tapping it tenderly against her nose.

"Old captain, graduated last year, a real jerk," Mel supplied.

"You said something about not getting along with him before," prompted Taylor.

"We dated at the beginning of my first year, then I dumped him and he never let it go, wouldn't even have me on the pitch much less try out for the team," said Mel. "Real ass about it," she added.

"She neglects to mention she dumped him for one of his own Beaters," Charles informed Taylor. Mel just looked surprised, and then smiled, recognition dawning.

"Oh yeah," she said, "I forgot about that."

Charles just rolled his eyes.

"Dom was one to hold grudges, though, that's for sure," he continued. "Never forgave Oliver for just leaving that day, even though it was an easy match against Merlin Academy. Couldn't believe he agreed to make Oliver captain after that, even though he's obviously the best for the job.

"It was so odd," recalled Charles. "I remember seeing Oliver look anxious and start fiddling with his sleeve just before hurtling off the field. Thought maybe he suddenly got sick, but I didn't see him for the next two days, and then he came back to the dorms really looking ill. He had that don't-ask-me face on, so I never did. This is going to hurt a little."


	15. Care Package

" 'This is going to hurt a little,' " muttered Taylor, minutes later, walking from the pitch while massaging her nose with one hand. She remembered Charles suddenly grabbing her nose and twisting viciously, making the world around her explode in searing pain. Now she recalled hearing Charles say an incantation shortly after, and the pain dulled slightly, but at the time she reacted reflexively.

"Oi, sorry," Charles had said, gingerly rubbing his shin where Taylor had kicked him with her heavy cleated boots. "I had to put it back in place before fusing the bone or it would be crooked forever."

Taylor smiled a little guiltily now at the memory. Charles had limped off and disapparated before she could really thank him or even apologize for the shin-attack. The others had just laughed themselves silly at her reaction and let her get on with getting cleaned up. She had taken an extra-long shower and by the time she got out, the locker room was empty. All her clothes and equipment were folded and stacked neatly in a pile on a bench, on top of which sat a note written on a scrap of paper.

"Sorry to leave you behind," Taylor read aloud, now walking back onto the center of the campus, passing several people on their way to lunch. "We all had some things to take care of first, but how about lunch at Ania's? Bring Chloe. Owl me if you guys are free."

The note was signed, "Mel," in an elegant flowing script Taylor instantly envied. Just the thought of lunch made her stomach grumble loudly and she quickened her pace, readjusting her grip on her broom and stack of heavy leather pads, laces flopping everywhere. She flipped the note over by chance and saw a post-script: "Love the new nose."

Alarmed, Taylor crossed her eyes, looking down the length of her nose to be absolutely sure it wasn't crooked anymore. It seemed to be as she remembered it, and she dismissed Mel's taunts and decided not to worry about it anymore. It no longer hurt, if anything, even if she tried wrinkling it and scowling vigorously, which earned her some curious glances as she walked.

.

Opening the door to her and Chloe's dorm room with the now familiar hip-procedure, Taylor was surprised to smell bacon. She glanced around the empty room, hoping to find a napkin with some scraps of something edible Chloe might have brought back from breakfast, but no luck. Shrugging to herself and wondering where Chloe had wandered off to, she pulled open her closet with one hand and tossed her Firebolt inside while aiming her room key for her desk.

A cry of protest and the sound of breaking glass from within the closet surprised her and she looked in, cautiously, to see Chloe standing in the middle of a restaurant-size kitchen, with the front of her shirt, the shiny counters and floor, and Taylor's broom spattered with what appeared to be pancake batter.

"What—?" Taylor spluttered. She watched as Chloe bent to pick up the shards of a mixing bowl and fused them together with a quick wave of her wand, also saying a scouring spell to clean up the rest of the mess. Ducking to fit through the small door as she stepped out of the closet—kitchen?—Chloe handed Taylor the Firebolt and told her to put it in the other closet on the opposite side of the room.

Taylor did so, still too flabbergasted to protest, and finally managed to say, "What?" again.

"It's our first care package," Chloe explained, ducking back through the closet and reappearing with a plate each of bacon, eggs and pancakes, finally closing the door with her foot. "Breakfast?" She offered Taylor one of the plates, balanced precariously on her bent elbow.

"Stop," commanded Taylor, and Chloe froze, looking puzzled. "Sit." Chloe did, putting the plates of food down on the bed next to her. "Explain."

"I told you," said Chloe, laughing at Taylor's sullenly confused expression. "It's a care package, my mom sent it this morning, 'Kitchen in a box' or something, she found it in Witch Weekly after I wrote telling her the food was awful. It's pretty cool," Chloe went on, "it comes in this little tiny box no bigger than your thumbnail. You put it in whatever space you can spare, say the activation spell, and voila, expand-o-kitchen. Fully stocked fridge and everything."

Taylor turned to look at the closet—it was barely large enough to hold all her Quidditch equipment and what few hanging clothes she had—and then opened the door to look in on the kitchen, which was easily twice the size of their entire dorm room. She shook her head in quiet resignation and looked back to Chloe, who was again extending the plate of bacon.

"I thought I'd make us some breakfast," said Chloe, "well—" She stopped, looking thoughtful. "It's really lunch, I suppose, but I just got up."

Taylor thought of the last few exhausting hours she'd spent very much awake and glared at Chloe.

"Hey," Chloe said, defensively, "I don't do silly things like join Quidditch teams, and thus I am rewarded by getting to sleep in on Sunday mornings." She grinned at Taylor, who just sighed and took the proffered piece of bacon, biting down with a satisfying crunch.

The two girls had barely begun their meal, sitting cross-legged together on the floor, when there was a knock at the door. Taylor stood and opened it to see Ann, Mel, and Donna standing outside.

"Weren't you supposed to owl me?" Mel asked, dryly, and Taylor suddenly remembered the note and lunch invite.

"Oh! Sorry," she said, laughing. She glanced back at Chloe, thinking about the kitchen shock, and said, "I got a little distracted."

"Are those real pancakes?" Donna demanded suddenly, pushing her way to the front and peering over Taylor's shoulder.

"Have some," said Chloe cheerfully, raising the plate.

Donna practically flew into the room, Ann and Mel close on her heels, the trio descending on Chloe like a pack of ravenous acromantulas, nearly scrambling on all fours to the stack of pancakes.

"Oh, these are amazing," said Donna, moments later, her mouth full. "Makes the cafeteria ones seem like cardboard cutouts."

"But where on earth did you get them?" asked Ann, and Chloe just smiled slyly in response.

Still back by the open door, Taylor managed to catch her breath and then pulled herself out of the hamper into which she'd been unceremoniously shoved during the great pancake-rush, staggering slightly to regain her balance.

"Come on in," she said, sarcastically.


	16. Doomed

Chloe explained about the hideaway kitchen, as Taylor figured it was more her story anyway. Their three visitors had been thrilled by the discovery, and followed Chloe into it for the grand tour (Mel nearly had to bend in half to fit through the closet door).

Taylor decided to pass on the explorations and sat down heavily at her desk. She had a backlog of homework to get done, realizing that Quidditch was starting to eat into her time and it was only a week into the year. Bookwork was piling up and she hadn't been practicing her defense spells at all. She just counted herself lucky that she seemed to have a natural affinity for that class, which meant she could get away with not spending much time on it. The rest, though...that was going to be difficult. How would she ever stay on top of all her classes _and_ Quidditch?

Apparently she'd been spacing out during her meditation on her busy schedule, because she was taken completely by surprise when a hand came down forcefully on her head, ruffling (and tangling) her wet hair.

"My poor ickle Firstie," said Mel, in a sickeningly sweet voice, laughing as Taylor wrestled out from under her hand. "Don't worry; it'll get less hectic before too long, you just need to get your feet under you."

"Were you falling behind in your first week of school?" Taylor asked Mel, turning as everyone else piled haphazardly out of the closet, listening to the conversation.

"Well certainly," said Mel. "It takes everybody some time to get used to college life. For me personally, it took about a month before I was on top of everything." Taylor felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth, feeling better already.

Then Mel noticed something on Taylor's desk, reaching down to unearth a wrinkled piece of paper and smoothing it flat in her hands. Her eyebrows shot up alarmingly and Taylor felt her smile waver.

"Then again, I was taking about half as many classes as you," said Mel, looking over Taylor's class schedule. "_Advanced_ Defense Against the Dark Arts," she read, "are you out of your mind? Magical Composition? What are you—?"

"You also weren't playing Quidditch your first year," interrupted Ann, diplomatically, pulling the paper out of Mel's hand and giving it back to Taylor. "That eats up an awful lot of time, even for those of us who are several years used to college life."

"So basically I'm doomed, is what you're saying," Taylor said, feeling deflated.

"Nah, you'll be fine," said Donna. "John—you met John, right?"

Taylor nodded, remembering. "Yeah, at dinner. Chaser?"

"That's the one," said Donna. "He was on the team as a first-year last season, and he survived. And he's a good student."

"What are you implying?" asked Mel, looking scandalized.

Donna and Ann laughed, and Donna just shook her head, mock-glaring at Mel. "You knew what I meant." She turned to Taylor. "I'm just saying, if John managed to keep his grades up all season, I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," Taylor said, trying hard to believe her.

"Anyway, we'd better run," said Ann, moving towards the door. "Thanks for the tour, Chloe, I hope to be back for some of your cooking soon."

"Yep, looking forward to it," agreed Donna.

"Likewise!" added Mel, cheerfully, waving as they left, pulling the door closed behind them.

Taylor let out a heavy sigh, letting her head fall back over the back of her chair. Upside-down, the mountain of homework leered back at her. She stuck out her tongue and sat back up again, blinking as the blood sorted out which way to rush. Chloe crossed the room and sat at her own desk, turning her Muggle office chair towards Taylor.

"You gonna make it?" she asked, after a moment, and Taylor laughed.

"Yeah, I think I'll manage," said Taylor, sighing again. "How're you doing with keeping up, having any problems?"

"Not as yet," said Chloe, using her feet to push against any relatively stationary surface—desk, wall, Taylor—to spin her chair as she talked. "We've got the same number of classes, but I'm not playing Quidditch. That's a lot of time I have to study that you don't."

"Hmm."

Taylor wasn't being purposefully morose, but she wasn't trying too hard to cheer up either. She'd spent all her years at Hogwarts as top of her class; academics were a high priority for her, and Quidditch never before took up enough time to impinge on her studies. This new conflict was going to be difficult, because it would probably mean having to make concessions on either side of the issue. She grimaced.

"Well," said Chloe, finally deciding that was all she was going to get as far as the conversation was concerned, "I'm going to go clean up the kitchen." She stood up and walked to the closet. "If you ask me, you should go talk to John-The-Chaser. If he went through this last year, he'd probably have some good advice."

Taylor considered this. It was probably a good idea. Couldn't hurt, she reasoned, and she wanted to get to know the rest of the team anyway—she was already pretty close with the girls, and with George, but that was about it. Besides, if John had any guidelines at all for surviving the first semester, she could really use the help.

"I think I will," she said, standing, already feeling better just by having at least some plan of action. "That might really help."

"Good for you," said Chloe, her voice carrying from the kitchen. Taylor was already half out the door as she finished, "And even if it doesn't help, he's really good-looking."

.

"Hey, wait up!"

Taylor had rushed out of her room, hoping to catch up to Ann, Donna, and Mel. They were halfway across the compound between the first-year dorms and the transfiguration building, but they turned at Taylor's call.

"What's up?" asked Donna.

"Chloe suggested I talk to John, thought it might be a good idea to get some survival tips," explained Taylor, falling into step next to Mel.

"That is a good idea," said Ann, smiling. "John's a real sweetheart; he'll take care of you." They turned the corner, following a path around the outside of the transfiguration building that Taylor hadn't seen before.

"Well, I figured it'd be good to get to know some other people on the team, too. Not to say you guys aren't great," Taylor said, quickly, before Mel could go into her indignant routine, "but I only know you three and George, really."

"And Charles," said Donna, and Taylor thought about the scene in the girls' locker room, smiling despite herself. Poor Charles...

"And Oliver, of course," added Mel, grinning wickedly. "Though you'd _love_ to get to know him better, I'm sure." Taylor scowled and aimed a kick at her shins but Mel hurried out of range.

"Oh, stop teasing," said Ann, her smile betraying the authoritative tone.

"Anyway," Taylor continued, half-heartedly glaring at Mel, "I don't know where to find him, thought I'd ask you lot."

"Oh, the guys are in the same building as us," explained Donna. "We're on the ground floor in a triple, and they're all on the third floor in a big apartment."

"Hardly seems fair," said Mel. "They have this great little kitchen and none of them can cook."

"Hmph, yes," Ann said, looking disgruntled. "They always drop their failed—"

"And often flaming," added Donna.

"—attempts out the window on our side of the building into the garbage bins," Ann finished. "They're always smelling up the place, I have to keep going out there and putting a scent-repellant spell on the trash."

Taylor laughed, and a moment later they'd reached the right building. It didn't look to her as though it could house three people, much less three stories and the whole of the Wandslake Quidditch team.

Donna must have noted her surprise, because she said, "Yeah, this is one of the older dorms; it's spelled to hold more space than it should, strictly speaking. Like your kitchen-closet, for example. The rest of them are all Muggle, though." She unlocked the front door and let them all in.

The first thing Taylor registered was the faint smell of smoke.

"Oh Merlin, they're at it _again_," said Ann, making a face. "Tell them off for me when you go up, will you?" She put a hand over her nose and mouth and ducked into the room on the right, Donna and Mel following quickly after, calling, "Third floor!"

Waving a hand in front of her face in a feeble attempt to waft away the smoke, Taylor climbed up the stairs. The second floor was another hall of two small rooms, both of them with their doors closed. She couldn't blame them, really. Taylor continued up to the third floor and nearly fell over. The square-footage had doubled from the floor below, the hall more than twice as long. Again, there were two doors, and she reasoned that there must be two apartments to a floor. But now she didn't know which she was looking for, but she made a guess from the smoke smell, now much stronger. She crossed her fingers and knocked. Voices came through the walls.

"Door! Charles!"

"I'm _busy_, I'm cooking—"

"Burning, more like."

"Shut up!"

"Would someone get the bloody door?"

"You're closest!"

"Yes, but I'm not—oh fine."

Taylor heard footsteps and one voice grew louder.

"It's probably Sean from next door, come to tell us off again, so _you_ can explain why it smells like—oh..."

The door had swung almost angrily open, and Taylor stood face to face with Oliver.

Oliver, clad only in a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Er...hi," she said.


	17. Help

They stood there for a moment in surprised silence, during which time Taylor kicked herself for the "Er...hi," and willed herself to put together an actual sentence.

"You didn't shower after practice?"

_What?_ She closed her eyes, hoping against hope she hadn't actually just said that.

"Well, I had to talk to Professor Lupin," Oliver explained, starting to go a little bit pink. "By the time I got back to the locker rooms they'd used up all the hot water."

"Oh," she said, trying to remember what she was doing there. "Oh, right, is John—"

"If it's Sean, tell him to go sit on a billywig, for all I care," came Charles' booming voice, making both Taylor and Oliver jump.

"No, it's Taylor," said Oliver, opening the door to let her in.

"Oh, Taylor! Let her in, for Merlin's sake," called Charles.

"I _am_," said Oliver, annoyed, as a shock of red hair popped out from a doorway on the left.

"Did I hear someone say 'Taylor?' "

"Hey George," Taylor said, smiling. Others seemed to be looking out to see who it was as well, and she couldn't help feeling awkward standing there next to a half-naked Oliver.

"What's up?" asked George, leaning against the bar counter that separated Charles and the kitchen from the small common area of the apartment.

"Actually," said Taylor, "I'm just looking for John, is he around?" She could have sworn she saw a puzzled look on Oliver's face, but when she looked again it was gone.

"Oh yeah," George was saying. "He's my roommate. Same year and all that, I'll grab him." He turned to the room he'd come out of, cupped his hands and shouted, "Oi! John! Taylor wants you!"

Taylor winced at the volume, but it had served its purpose. John appeared in the door, in jeans and socks, pulling a shirt on over his head and mussing his dark hair. Taylor knew very little about him at all. He was an American, from the school in Salem, according to Donna, but that and the rather obvious fact that he played Chaser was about the extent of her information.

"Hey," said John, smiling as he approached the group. "What's up?"

"Oh, well," said Taylor, now aware she had a crowd. "Um, can I talk to you for a sec?"

George, thankfully, took the hint and returned to his room, but not without giving her a very suggestive look. She made a face back at him. Oliver, however, just turned and started talking to Charles across the bar. He's wearing a towel, for god's sake, she thought, why is he still milling around out here? She turned back to John, trying to focus on the matter at hand.

"So, John," Taylor began, suddenly embarrassed and unsure of what to say. "This might be an odd request, given that we haven't really had the chance to talk or anything during practices..."

"Well, that's understandable, isn't it?" interrupted John, good-naturedly. "Chasers and Beaters are generally kind of working towards cross-purposes," he continued, wryly, fingering a purple bruise on his forehead.

"Did I do that?" she asked, worriedly, biting her bottom lip.

"You sent a Bludger straight down onto my tail from above," said John, starting to laugh. "So the broom handle up and smacked me in the face."

"I am so sorry," she said, beginning to laugh as well and trying to cover her smile with her hand.

"No, no," he said, grinning, "it was more damaging to my ego than to my forehead, I promise."

"Well I'm glad then," said Taylor, feeling much more at ease. "So long as there's no hard feelings, I can ask for a favor."

"Ask away," John said, leaning against the bar.

"Well," Taylor began, "the girls tell me you managed to survive being on the team as a first-year—"

"And you're looking for some tips?" he finished.

"I'm already behind," she admitted with a sigh, throwing up her hands in a gesture of defeat. John just laughed at her.

"Well, is there anything specifically giving you problems, or just the whole general concept of balancing class and Quidditch?"

"That last bit."

"What kind of a class-load are you taking?"

Taylor started to tell him, but remembered she still had her class schedule stuffed in her pocket after Mel had relinquished it earlier. She pulled it out now and handed it over.

John did a pretty good impression of Mel's reaction to the schedule.

"Wow," he said. "No wonder you're swamped."

"Yargh." Taylor slumped sideways, pressing her cheek to the cold countertop. "That's pretty much what everyone has been saying."

"Don't start worrying yet," John said, squeezing her shoulder and pulling her upright again. He looked down at her class schedule again. "You actually only have one more class than I did last year, and only one different class. I'm not exactly sure I can help very much, but if nothing else I can give you insider info on profs' breaking points regarding tardiness and late assignments."

"It's certainly a start," said Taylor, smiling gratefully.

John suddenly stood and stepped away from the bar.

"How about you let me take you out to lunch, and we'll figure out what else I can do to help," he suggested, smiling. His voice then dropped to a whisper as he leaned closer. "I'd invite you to just have lunch here, but I'd hate to subject you to Charles' cooking." He winked.

"I heard that!" said Charles, laughing, lunging across the kitchen and leaning across the bar to take a swing at John with a spatula. Taylor ducked as Charles' follow-through sent the spatula flying towards her at breakneck speed before swinging back the other direction for another pass at John, who was laughing and staying just out of reach, making faces and taunting, "Nyeah, nyeah!"

"Don't mock unless you can do better!"

"Your so-called quiche is burning," commented Oliver, pointing. Charles half-glared at him and returned to the oven.

"You're all going to eat this, and you're going to like it," said Charles, threateningly, as he pulled the blackened and smoking quiche out of the oven. Taylor was still trying to suppress giggles at the whole situation, and while Charles' back was turned John grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the door.

"Come on," he said, "we're making a break for it."

.

Oliver was watching Charles beat out small flames at the edges of the Pyrex dish, trying to come up with some way to not be forced to eat the innards, when he heard the door to the apartment open and quickly shut again. He turned to find John and Taylor gone.

"Wait..." said Oliver, frowning. "What just happened?"

"John just put the moves on your girl," said Charles cheerfully, slapping Oliver on the back with a heavy, smoldering, oven-mitted hand.


	18. John

"So I've managed to save you from Charles' cooking, but now you may be stuck with cafeteria food," said John, holding the door to the building open for her to pass in front, blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight.

"Well," said Taylor, thoughtfully. "I sort of acquired a kitchen this morning, and while I don't claim to be a five star chef, I do make a mean grilled cheese, if you're interested."

"You _acquired_ a kitchen?" asked John, looking skeptical.

"Come on," Taylor said, laughing.

.

"Hey Chloe," called Taylor, knocking on door 213. "Mind if I bring in a visitor?" The usual twang the bedsprings made as one stands meant that Chloe had finished cleaning the kitchen and was likely back to doing her homework.

"Is this a good-looking Chaser type visitor?" Chloe called from inside the room. "Or—" The door swung open and Chloe's broad smile turned awkward as her gaze slid over Taylor's left shoulder and onto John. "Ah, that's a 'yes,' then," said Chloe. "Come on in." She stood back to let them in and gave Taylor a pained look of chagrin behind John's back as she closed the door again.

"John, you might know my roommate, from last night," Taylor said, turning back to introduce Chloe.

"Yes, we met very briefly," said John, smiling. He held out a hand, saying, "Chloe, right?"

Chloe took the extended hand and grinned.

"Yep, nice to have a proper introduction, though," said Chloe. She turned towards Taylor and pushed a heavy textbook aside so she could sit back down on the bed. "So—why did you guys come back here, exactly?"

"Oh," said Taylor, pointing a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. "We haven't eaten lunch, I was going to whip up something for us."

"Ah, right then, have at it," Chloe said, settling back into her work, licking the tip of a quill she'd put down on her pillow when she got up to let them in. There was a small ink splotch on the pillow case, and she tutted, turning the pillow over rather than deal with the stain now.

"I can take care of that, if you like," said John, pulling his wand from his back pocket. He started to say the words of a quick-cleaning spell.

"I know how, I'm just being lazy," said Chloe good-naturedly, still looking down at her work and batting his wand hand away absently. The wand now pointed directly her way, Taylor jumped aside as the spell flashed past into the kitchen.

"Watch it!" she said, laughing. She started to tell them off for rough-housing when she heard a tinny metal 'ping!' from inside the kitchen. Turning to look, Taylor saw John's cleaning spell had bounced off the stainless steel cupboards along the wall. It ricocheted across the room into another set of cupboards, and then off the island countertop into the light fixture.

"What on earth?" said Chloe, leaning forward to look. The spell rebounded off the light fixture onto the original cupboard that had reflected it first, sending it back towards the doorway, where the three of them were peering in. John and Taylor both ducked, knees and elbows colliding, sending them both off-balance and crashing down. Chloe let out a squeak and flattened herself on the mattress as the spell finally landed, knocking over a tall bin, spilling clothes onto the floor.

"Brilliant!" Chloe said, happily. "You've hit my hamper and saved me a trip to the laundry this week." She crawled off the bed to gather up her now freshly-cleaned clothes.

"That cleaning spell couldn't have done all your laundry," said John, puzzled, standing.

"It must have gained power with every ricochet," Taylor theorized from the floor.

"Like Flubber!" Chloe agreed, as John offered a hand to help Taylor up.

"Like what?" asked John, looking more confused than ever. Taylor reasoned that he must not be Muggle-born.

"Nevermind," she said, letting go of John's hand to brush off the seat of her pants. "New rule: no spells in the kitchen, alright?"

Chloe was stuffing clothes, unfolded, into drawers, closing them with shirtsleeves and pants' cuffs hanging out. "Sounds like a plan," she said.

"Come on, I think it's safe now," Taylor said to John, ushering him into the kitchen. She started bustling around, taking two plates from the shelves by the door and setting them on the counter along the opposite wall. Opening the refrigerator to look for cheese, Taylor asked John if he wanted something to drink.

"No thanks," he said, leaning on the island counter as he watched her shut the fridge with her hip and set both butter and cheese down in front of him.

"Oh, let me grab you a stool, or something," Taylor said, waving her wand and materializing a bar stool for him.

"I thought you just said, 'no spells in the kitchen,' " Chloe shouted from the other room.

"Shut up," Taylor called back, "this is different."

John just laughed and sat down on the bar stool.

"Oh—drat." Taylor was standing on tip-toes, but her fingers could barely brush the handle of the frying pan she needed, suspended above the island counter on a large storage rack.

"Here, I've got it," John said, standing, reaching towards the frying pan. As he stretched an arm up, his forearms became visible out of his long sleeves. His arm was covered in cuts, recent enough to still have dark red scabs.

"What are those?" Taylor asked, catching his wrist as he handed her the pan. She put the pan down on the stove and pushed his sleeve up his arm, fingertips gently touching the cuts. He pushed her hand away and pulled his sleeve down again.

"Don't worry," he said, "just cat scratches."

"Cat?" Taylor asked, frowning.

"Oliver has a cat," John explained, and Taylor suddenly remembered.

"Yes, Kali," she said, smiling, "I met her on the train." John only grimaced in return.

"Yes, well," he said, "she may have liked you, but she hates everything male, except Oliver. We're all at wit's end, trying to stay out of her way, and I don't have to tell you it's a small apartment."

"Hmph," said Taylor, buttering slices of bread while she waited for the pan to heat up. "Speak for yourself, I have a three-by-five meter space to share, you have a whole flat for the lot of you."

"With an angry cat, it doesn't matter," John countered. "There's nowhere to hide."

Taylor grinned, now carefully cutting thick slices of cheese, laying them out in a patchwork for each sandwich. She eased both assembled sandwiches into the frying pan and smiled to herself at the sizzle of the butter.

"Alright," said Taylor, jumping up to sit on the opposite counter, her heels thumping against the stainless steel cabinets below. "Any advice for the poor, overwhelmed first-year?"

"I don't think you're all that overwhelmed," John said, propping his elbows on the counter to one side of the stove. "You're on top of all your classes so far, it's not as if you're struggling academically. I think you just need to nail down a schedule that will let you get everything done with as little stress as possible."

"Easier said than done," said Taylor, sighing. She noticed some cheese oozing out the side of one of the sandwiches and jumped down from the counter. "These need turning. But go on, sorry."

"Well," John said, leaning back again, watching Taylor start rummaging through drawers, assumedly for a spatula. "Once you consider at the chunk of time Quidditch takes up, then it's just divvying up the rest for classes and study and homework."

"Oy, that's not much time," Taylor said, frowning as she yanked open drawer after drawer. "Chloe! Spatula?"

"Second drawer down, other side of the stove," Chloe called.

"That's a ridiculous place to put the spatulas," muttered Taylor, walking around to retrieve one. She tapped John's knee and he moved obligingly, letting her yank open the appropriate drawer and grab a spatula.

"I heard that," said Chloe.

Taylor chose to ignore Chloe, and she decided she'd stay on that side of the stove rather than walk all the way around the island again. She stood next to John and turned the pan so the handle pointed back towards herself.

"In any case," Taylor continued, deftly flipping the first sandwich, "Quidditch is three hours every afternoon—"

"Double on weekends," John put in.

In a spectacular double-take, Taylor nearly flung the second sandwich across the room. John caught it, hurriedly putting it back in the pan.

"What? _Double?_"

"Okay, okay," John said, laughing as he blew on his burned fingers. "Only...uh...five-thirds, not double."

"I thought the five-hour weekend practices were just for the first weekend, like conditioning or something," Taylor said, slumping backwards. She planned to collapse melodramatically into a puddle on the tile floor, but John was too quick for her, and with just a word, a plump beanbag appeared beneath her. Taylor fell into it, startled, and then started to laugh.

"Handy," she said, approvingly. Then she sat up, suddenly, saying, "Hey, those sandwiches are probably done. Here..." She scooted backwards with her feet, still sitting in the beanbag, until she reached the shelves by the door. Arms stretching up as far as she could from her sitting position, her fingertips barely brushed the first plate in a stack of at least ten.

"Uh, I'm thinking this could end really badly..." John said, standing up and starting towards the shelves.

"Oh sit down, I've got it," said Taylor, standing and taking two plates from the top of the stack. She then sat back down on the beanbag, plates in her lap, and scooted back to the island. Handing the plates up to John, she settled herself more comfortably and waited for him to pass it back with a sandwich on it.

"Would you turn off—"

"Way ahead of you," John said, leaning across the stove to turn off the burner, moving the pan off it as well.

The kitchen fell into silence as they ate, she on the beanbag and he on the stool at the counter. After a long morning's practice, it didn't take them long to finish. Within minutes, Taylor stood again and offered to take John's plate.

"Oh—thanks," he said, as Taylor walked around to the sink. "That was indeed a great grilled cheese."

"Why, thank you," Taylor said, grinning. "I'm glad you liked it." She put a stopper in the sink and turned on the hot water tap. Waiting for the sink to fill up, she turned to ask John what else he thought she should do, but before she could speak, he cried out.

"Crap, is it really almost two?"

John looked up from his watch, but Taylor just shrugged—she didn't wear a watch.

"I have to run off," John said, standing. "I have an arithmancy study group—about fifteen minutes ago."

"Ah, yes," Taylor said, remembering to turn off the water before it overflowed. "Better hurry," she added.

"Thanks again for lunch," said John, walking back out into the dorm room proper. He waved to Chloe, "Nice to meet you," and then left.

A moment later he was back, though, leaning around the doorframe.

"Hey, Taylor, sorry," he said, "tomorrow can you meet me at the library—wait, when's your last class?"

"One," said Taylor. "So, I'm done at two."

"Then at two meet me at the library and we'll get you sorted out before practice, alright?"

"Sounds like a plan," Taylor agreed. "Thanks for the help."

"Oh, no worries," said John, smiling. "My pleasure."


	19. Late

John must have been waiting for Taylor at the library for some time before she got there, because he had his arithmancy notes spread out on the table and seemed to be in the middle of a complicated calculation, his head bent low over the parchment.

Taylor sat across the table from him, sinking into her chair with a sigh. He glanced up and did a double-take at her appearance.

"Good gravy," said John. "What happened to you?"

"Well," Taylor began, brushing soot off her blouse and picking several small fish out of her hair, "you get me after dueling class today."

"I take it you were vanquished?" he asked, reaching across the table to remove a herring she'd missed.

"Thanks—and heavens no, I conquered," she replied, grinning and pulling her hair back into a tight braid. "Doesn't mean I didn't take a fair few hits in the process."

"Oy," said John, laughing as he shook his head. "I'm more and more glad I didn't take dueling last year."

"That's the class we have different?" Taylor asked, securing the ends of her braid. "I mean, last year you had history, defense, astronomy, transfiguration, and magic comp., but no dueling?"

"Yep," he said, putting aside his arithmancy. "Having five classes was more than plenty, and dueling has never ever been my strong suit." He stood and unrolled another piece of parchment in front of Taylor, smoothing it flat.

"What's this?" She peered down at the crosshatch of lines on the parchment. They made a large square grid, and she frowned at it. She looked up at John, behind her, puzzled.

"A week," said John, smiling. "We're mapping out your schedule. There's seven days—" he pointed to the seven wide columns "—and twenty-four hours to each. Just write down when you have classes and practice and—"

"Everything, got it," she said, "hand me a quill."

She set to work filling in each box of the grid with one or two word entries to explain the activity in question. When she was done, they both looked down at it.

"Merlin, Taylor," said John, sounding as overwhelmed as she felt.

Nearly every square was full of her scratchy penmanship, and Taylor's throat started closing up as she looked down at the physical representation of the workload she'd put on herself.

"John, I'm beginning to think six classes was a bad idea," Taylor said sadly.

"Drop something," John said immediately, but Taylor shook her head.

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, as though it settled the matter and John let out an exasperated noise. She looked up and saw John grabbing handfuls of his hair, inky fingers disappearing into his similarly colored locks.

"Taylor—" he started, "—that's not—" (strangled noise) "—you can't—" He finished with an anguished sounding "nnnngh!"

"I don't know, I'm sorry!" Taylor said, a little too loudly, slinking down in her chair to avoid angry glares from other students, "I just can't! I'll make it work!" She watched the muscles in John's jaws work as he sat down again across from her. His fringe was a mess and she leaned across to put it back into place, brushing through it with the fingers of her right hand.

"And there's no way I can talk you out of this?" he asked finally. He watched Taylor's mouth set in a grim line, and he sighed. "Fine. What can I do to help you, then?"

Taylor raised one eyebrow and smiled at John slyly.

"Well," she said, "there is this one magic composition assignment…"

. . 

Half an hour later, their table was covered in heaps of sodden parchment and water dripped a steady beat onto the floor, making a large puddle at their feet. John seemed amused and Taylor was seething.

"Damn," she muttered, thumping a fist on the table with a splash. Her hair was coming out of its braid in wisps and she stood upright with a resigned sigh and tucked some stray hairs behind her ears. She leaned back, stretching, and slipped on the wet tile, gasping. If not for John's Chaser reflexes, she would have fallen, but as it was he managed to grab her by the elbow. "Damn," she said again, weakly.

"Don't worry," he said, laughing, helping Taylor regain her balance. "I couldn't get my first water-proofing spell to work for a week. And I had Professor Shipman's help in writing it." He conjured a large pink sponge, which began happily sopping up the water on the table, making an odd slurping noise.

"I must have miscalculated something," Taylor said sadly. "Again," she added dutifully, looking around at the mess. She sighed and closed her eyes, concentrating hard. She could see her own scratchy figures and notes in her head and struggled to remember what variation on her original theory she had tried last (her notes had long since been sacrificed in the testing).

"More parchment," said Taylor determinedly, pushing the failed earlier attempts onto the floor, where they fell in a soggy pile with a _squelch_. The sponge flopped its way down onto the tile and continued slurping loudly.

John procured a fresh roll of parchment from his bag and put it in Taylor's outstretched hand. "Roll number four," he said, laughing as he dodged a blow aimed at his ribs. "This one's a draft for my history paper."

"Oh, shut up, you," said Taylor, sticking out her tongue. She unrolled the parchment and tore off about a foot's length of John's neat handwriting before tossing the roll back to John, who caught it deftly. She held the foot of parchment in front of her and tapped it with her wand, saying clearly, "_Hydrato repellus_."

She glanced at John, who nodded encouragingly, and sent a jet of water from the tip of her wand at the parchment. To her delight, the spray of water rolled off the parchment as though it were glass.

Taylor muffled a happy laugh as John grinned at her. He sat heavily in his chair, pulled away from the table, and leaned back. Teetering on the rear legs of his chair, he sighed happily at the ceiling as he rested with his arms behind his head.

Suddenly he gasped, rocking forward again so fast the front chair legs slammed down onto the tile with a splash and an ear-splitting _crack! _that turned every head in the library.

"Fizzing Whizbees, we're going to be late for practice!"

He leapt to his feet, running a hand through his hair in anxiety, making his fringe stand up at all angles again.

"Relax, we'll make it," said Taylor, seizing the sponge, which squeaked in alarm. She unceremoniously pushed the sponge back and forth across the table, sucking up water all the while, before vanishing it again with a wave of her wand. The rest of their books and homework had been stacked on a bookshelf nearby to keep dry and Taylor used one arm to sweep it all into her bag. John snatched away an uncorked bottle of ink before she could make a mess everywhere and pulled his own bag up onto his shoulders, starting toward the door.

Hurrying out of the library close on John's heels, Taylor reached forward to tug on his sleeve.

"Quick—I found a shortcut here yesterday," she said, pulling him through a patch of hydrangea bushes growing by the library entrance.

"Taylor, the pitch is _that_ way," corrected John, stopping hip-deep in round purple flowers and pointing the opposite direction.

"Well, my broom is _this_ way," said Taylor, pulling him behind her by his shirt collar.

"What—back at your room?" he asked, stumbling forward with no choice but to follow her. "You don't have a broom locker?"

"I don't even have a broom _cupboard_ anymore," called Taylor over her shoulder, releasing him from her grasp and starting to run left behind the library in the direction of the First-year dormitories. "There's a kitchen in there now," she muttered.

It only took John a few long strides to catch up to her and he fell into step on her right.

"You don't have a locker at the stadium," he asked. Taylor's quizzical glance was a clear enough answer. "You're supposed to have an assigned locker in the locker room where you can stow your Quidditch gear," he explained. "Last year I got it after my first practice, but…"

"Ah!" said Taylor, laughing. "But you didn't have a broken nose after your first practice!"

Soon they were thundering up the steps to Taylor's dorm building, nearly flattening a few of her year-mates in the process. They pushed into Taylor's empty room—Chloe had more afternoon classes—and Taylor started shedding school clothes in favor of practice robes, giving an extremely embarrassed John barely enough time to turn his back.

Moments later, Taylor held the lacings to one of her thick leather arm guards in her teeth as she fumbled to lock the door, and John was tying the other guard onto her forearm, her beater's club tucked in the crook of his elbow. Handing John her Firebolt, Taylor led the way out of the building again as she laced the second arm guard herself, one-handed, with the ease and speed of six years' practice.

Once outside, Taylor reclaimed her broom and mounted, looking back at John expectantly.

"Come on," she said. "It's faster."

John gave her a skeptical look, but climbed on behind her. It seemed he wasn't sure where to put his hands, but he finally settled on gripping her shoulders awkwardly as his breath tickled her ear.

"Racing brooms aren't exactly designed with two passengers in mind, you know," he said.

"Better hold on, then," said Taylor, grinning broadly as she kicked off from the ground. The famous Firebolt acceleration kicked in immediately and she felt them both slide backwards a significant amount. John's hands moved suddenly to her hips, and then just as suddenly wrapped around her mid-section, squeezing tightly.

"_This_ was a great idea," John muttered in her ear. Taylor just laughed as they sped across the campus toward the Quidditch pitch.

The Firebolt was still accelerating even as Taylor pulled hard to the left at the pitch entrance. John cried out a warning and Taylor realized her mistake; this was a maneuver she could have easily made under normal circumstances, but with John's extra weight the abrupt direction change threw them both off the Firebolt in a tangle of limbs. They flew several feet before landing hard on the turf, now nose-to-nose, bouncing into the air again with a unanimous "oof." Taylor couldn't tell down from up as they rolled across the grass, but she could feel one of John's hands carefully cradling her head, keeping her nose tucked under his jaw. When they finally came to a painful stop, Taylor scrambled up, dragging John with her by the elbow.

"Come on," she began, stumbling, momentarily dizzy, "we can still make it." She was up again in a moment, trying to pull John to his feet. "We're not late yet, we—come on, get _up_." John was groaning and Taylor laughed as the two of them stumbled, holding onto each other and swaying perilously.

Looking momentarily for her Firebolt, she leaned on John with her left hand and drew her wand in her right, saying, "Accio broom—" But she stopped, eyes widening as she turned to the left and saw Oliver. He was turning away from the rest of the team at the sound of her and John's dramatic arrival, and he caught sight of Taylor just as John finally stood up next to her, swaying.

Taylor watched Oliver's expression turn from anger to surprise to confusion as his gaze moved from her to John and back again. Then his face took on an expression she couldn't quite read.

She opened her mouth to say something—she didn't know what, exactly—but before she could do anything she felt a sudden sharp pain at her temple and everything went black.

. .  
A/N: Well, bugger it. I keep promising to start writing more regularly, and it never happens. I am trying though, I promise, and I think I've yet again got a better handle on where this story is going To make up for my however-many-month-long hiatus-a double-length chapter! And for those who are always asking over the Taylor/Oliver situation, rest assured—cuteness cometh. Soon.  



	20. Out

"Is she going to be alright?"

"Look, she's coming around."

Taylor opened her eyes blearily, blinking as several faces swam into view above her.

"There's my girl," said Charles, smiling. He was kneeling next to her, trying to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun.

"Ooog," moaned Taylor, putting a hand up to her head as she sat up on her elbows. Strong hands pushed her gently back down to the grass, cradling her head and neck.

"Not just yet, you might have a concussion," Charles said, smoothing Taylor's hair over her forehead.

"What happened?" she asked, squinting painfully up at most of the team standing around her.

"You summoned your broom," said a voice Taylor recognized as Donna's.

"Slammed right into you," continued Ann's voice.

"Knocked you ass-over-teakettle," finished George happily, "it was spectacular."

"I've no doubt," agreed Taylor, groaning again.

"Alright, clear out, clear out, the lot of you, give her some space," said a new voice. Taylor's chest was suddenly tight in panic and she sat upright before Charles could stop her.

"Oliver? I'm sorry we were late," she said in a rush, "it was my fault, I'm—oh dear." Her vision went fuzzy and she dimly recognized that Charles had caught her again as her head lolled backwards, and he put her upper body back on the ground.

"Not so fast, I said," said Charles, laughing. "I know you think you're invincible, but I'm not so convinced." The rest of the team wandered off as Oliver knelt down next to her as well, opposite Charles. Oliver reached out and gently traced the outline of the bruise already growing where the broom had struck her. She winced and he tutted at her, smirking.

"Well done," said Oliver. "That one'll last over a week, I'd wager." Taylor raised her eyebrows curiously.

"How much?" she asked, but Oliver just laughed. Then he looked across at Charles.

"Should we get her off the pitch and into the shade somewhere?" asked Oliver. Taylor watched Charles nod and felt two pairs of hands helping her sit up slowly. When she managed this without blacking out again, they helped her to her feet. Taylor was still blinking, trying to clear her vision.

"Taylor," said Charles, watching her carefully, "I think probably we should levitate you or—"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Taylor, pushing away their hands. "I'm not going to break. I've had worse." She only made it three steps toward the sidelines before she felt dizzy again and fell sideways.

Strong arms caught her up and next thing she knew, Oliver was carrying her across the pitch. She blushed furiously but didn't protest further, despite catcalls from above—though she did catch George's eye and scowled furiously.

Charles followed behind Oliver and conjured a large beach umbrella in the brilliant Wandslake green and gold, under which Taylor was set down gently. Oliver hunkered down next to her.

"I'm going to get practice started, and then I'll be back, alright?" said Oliver.

"I'm really fine," Taylor said. "I'm not saying I should be on a broom on the moment—" she grimaced, saying, "especially seeing as how it attacked me—" Both Oliver and Charles laughed. "—but I'm alright. Really." Oliver gave her a very pointed look and walked over to his broom, picking it up and climbing on and kicking off all in one fluid movement.

Charles had conjured some ice for her and she held it against her head with one hand, using the other to prop herself up. She craned her neck to see the team in mid-air, clustered around Oliver, listening to instructions. Soon people split off into smaller groups to work on specific tasks or plays, and Taylor recognized John's sudden erratic flight-paths as Woollongong Shimmy practice. She frowned, wondering why he was the only Chaser to be working on the tactic.

Still holding the ice, Taylor started take off the leather padding she'd barely managed to get on in the first place. The Quidditch gear was help in the air, but on the ground it was just restricting. And _hot_. Charles noticed her trying to undo the laces with her teeth and pulled her arm away, doing it for her. At his prompting, she switched hands so he could remove the other arm's padding. He was just pulling off her first shin guard when Oliver returned, touching down on the turf again, standing on Taylor's right.

"Go on Charles," said Oliver. "They need a Keeper up there, and you need practice in the air for once, instead of on the ground looking after Taylor."

"Hey!"

Both men grinned at her reaction. Charles jogged off to collect his broom, shaggy hair bouncing on his shoulders, and then flew up to join the practice in full swing above them. Oliver sat down next to Taylor and unlaced the last of her gear, putting it on top of the pile of leather padding between them.

"Not a bad idea," he said, taking off his own kit and adding it to the pile. Taylor noticed how much longer both his shin and arm guards were and felt suddenly very short.

They sat for some time in silence, both watching the dark figures above them tracing patterns in the bright blue sky. Taylor could hardly tell who was who, but Mel's tell-tale white-blonde braids caught the sunlight every now and again, winking down at her. She put the ice down and leaned back on her elbows to take some small measure of stress off her lower back.

Oliver threaded his fingers through the thick grass. Taylor tried to count how many times Ann and Donna traded possession of the Quaffle.

Finally the quiet was too much.

"Sorry again for being late. And now for being not able to practice," said Taylor. Oliver pulled his gaze from the scrimmage and looked down at her plainly for a moment.

"Being late's not so bad, really," he said. "In comparison to not being able to practice, anyway. But neither is good," he finished. Taylor looked at her knees and grimaced. "It's alright though," Oliver continued, looking up to the practice again. "Just don't let it happen again." She wasn't sure whether this command was light-hearted or deathly serious, so she said nothing, her attention returning to the scrimmage as well.

"And at least you can still make the three required pre-season practices before Saturday," he added. Taylor slowly turned to look at him blankly. She tried for a moment to make sense of this statement, but gave up.

"What?"

Oliver glanced back to her, looking genuinely puzzled.

"What 'what'?"

"What 'three required practices' ?" Taylor pressed, sitting up and fixing him with a worried look. "And why before Saturday?"

"Oh!" Oliver said, realization finally dawning. "Right, you're a first-year."

"Well, yes," agreed Taylor, more confused than ever.

"No," said Oliver, "I mean, you don't know—at the beginning of the season, all the teams in our conference meet for a jamboree just to see some competition before it goes on the record."

"And that's Saturday?" she asked.

Oliver nodded.

"Where?"

"London," said Oliver. "Well, no, we stay in London and take a team-Portkey to the pitch they have set up elsewhere to avoid Muggles."

"Alright, I get the jamboree. Now, about the practices?" asked Taylor.

"All athletes must have attended at least three practices to be permitted to play in competition," he explained, reciting it in a way that made Taylor believe George's assertion at lunch that Oliver had swallowed an entire Quidditch Rules Handbook and could regurgitate it at will.

"I'll be sure to make the next two, then," said Taylor, laughing.

"You had better," Oliver said, suddenly sounding graver. Taylor's laughter caught painfully in her throat. Oliver looked to the rest of the team again. "I need you playing on Saturday or we don't have a chance."

Taylor didn't really know what to say. She didn't know what Oliver was thinking, and his sudden reproving seriousness caught her off-guard. She just sat and watched the practice and said nothing.

Once, Oliver shouted angrily up at Paul and Richard, who were motionless in mid-air, talking instead of working on the drill he'd assigned them, but other than that they sat in complete quiet, the only sounds being those from above of Chasers calling for passes and clubs striking Bludgers.

After some time, Oliver suddenly broke the silence.

"So why were you and John late anyway?"

Taken by surprise, Taylor just stared at him until her brain could process the question.

"Oh," she said, explaining, "it was my fault, we were working in the library—he was helping me with an assignment—and I lost track of time."

"Oh," said Oliver, looking relieved and smiling for the first time since he'd sat down next to her, "well—"

"And I didn't get a locker yesterday, either," Taylor interrupted, remembering. "We had to go all the way back to my dorm to get my gear."

"Really?" Oliver asked, frowning. "Donna was supposed to find one for you yesterday after practice."

"Well, in all fairness, we got kind of side-tracked," said Taylor, unconsciously rubbing her nose. Oliver noticed the gesture and laughed. "I'll make sure to get one today," she said, and Oliver nodded in agreement. He looked contemplative for a moment, and then sat up.

"John!" he shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. "You can stop now, sorry. I…lost track of time. Finish up with Donna and Kyle."

John finally came to a stop and slumped over his broom handle.

"Thanks Oliver," he called breathlessly, clearly relieved. He flew slowly off to the other end of the pitch in the Quidditch equivalent of limping.

Oliver caught Taylor's eye and looked away again hurriedly. He leaned back on his hands again, the fingertips of his left hand now just a hair's width from Taylor's right hand. She glanced down at their hands and hid a half-smile.

They sat there together until the sun dipped low in the sky and autumn's early dusk loomed. Oliver called the team together and Taylor gathered her leather guards and Firebolt and stood with everyone else, continually pushing away Charles' worried hands.

Oliver was reminding everyone about the jamboree—"Don't make plans this weekend…"—when Taylor felt a tug on the sleeve of her practice robes. Glancing to her left, she saw Mel had slipped to her side and was grinning madly.

"Spent all practice whispering sweet nothings to Oliver, eh?" Mel said under her breath. Taylor kicked her and Oliver gave them a strange look at Mel's squeak of both surprise and laughter.

"Shut up," said Taylor out of the corner of her mouth.

But Mel wouldn't let it go; she teased and taunted Taylor all the way to the locker rooms, until Taylor was so cross she asked Donna for permission to curse Mel's mouth shut. Both Donna and Ann laughed and Mel agreed to lay off.

"For awhile, anyway," she amended.

Taylor was grateful for her momentary reprieve, and piled all her Quidditch equipment into the locker Donna pointed out to her.

"Just a touch of your wand locks it, if you want it locked," said Donna, pulling on dry clothes after her shower. "But since it's really just the four of us, theft isn't likely to be a problem."

"Or at least you can narrow down the culprits," said Ann, laughing.

Taylor skipped showering and left Mel to sing along with the Weird Sisters on the WWN alone. Stepping out onto the grass and into the waning light, Taylor jumped when someone caught her elbow.

"Hey," said John, laughing at her reaction. His hair was damp and messy in the way that a quick, half-hearted toweling dry will cause. "Can I walk you back to your room?" Taylor sighed exasperatedly and started walking away.

"I'm fine!" she said. "I'm not dizzy anymore, I promise. You don't have to walk me back just because you're afraid I'll collapse again."

"Okay, okay," said John, who had initially looked surprised at the vehemence of her reaction. He caught up to her and said, "Then I promise to let you fall flat on your face, but I'm coming with you all the same."

"Only so long as you promise to that falling on my face bit," said Taylor.

"Done."

They walked across the pitch, discussing what she missed in the day's practice.

"George missed you," said John, "he's not too fond of Paul, I think, and having to work with him on Beater drills cramps his style."

"I believe it," Taylor said. "What was going on with you and the Woollongong for ages? I didn't see any of the other Chasers—"

"No, just me."

"Why?"

"I don't know—well, I have a guess," said John, "but nevermind."

"No, come on," Taylor said, elbowing him in the side. " What guess?"

A sudden gust of wind blew some of Taylor's hair into her eyes, and she pushed it behind her ears again as John shivered next to her.

"Great gargoyles, it's cold," said John, wrapping his arms around himself. Taylor could see the goose bumps forming on his skin.

"It's not that cold out," she argued. "It's just because you have wet hair."

"Well, it's cold to me, then," he said, shivering again.

"Oh alright, here," said Taylor, stepping behind him. Before he could turn around, she grasped his shoulders and jumped up unto his back.

"Whoa!" John nearly stumbled, grabbing under her knees to keep her from falling as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

"And why am I giving you a piggy-back ride?" he asked.

"I'm a human coat, I'm keeping you warm," she explained, and he laughed. She could feel the rumbling of his laughter in her own chest, pressed against his back. He started walking again, every now and then readjusting his hold to move her back up the distance gravity had pulled her down.

"You know, technically you shouldn't have caught me," said Taylor as they neared her dorm. "You promised to let me fall flat on my face."

"I could do it now," said John, letting go of his grip on her legs.

"No! No! Now I'm comfortable!" she said, holding tightly to his shoulders. Laughing again, he regained his hold and took the steps up to her building at a run.

Breathless, they arrived at Taylor's room. Taylor kicked at the door, calling, "Chloe! We don't have any hands to get the doorknob!"

"Do I even want to know?" came the reply. The door opened and Chloe shifted her gaze from her eye-level view of John's chest up to Taylor's grinning face. "Good practice?" she asked, stepping aside to let John shuffle in sideways, clearly purposefully bonking as many of Taylor's knees and elbows as possible on the doorframe.

"Good practice," agreed John, unceremoniously dumping Taylor backwards onto her bed. "Taylor passed out."

"I did not!" Taylor said indignantly at Chloe's shocked look. "I _blacked_ out," she corrected. "And it wasn't my fault."

"Yes it was," John said, laughing outright, "you hit yourself in the head with your own broom!"

"There's a lot more to it than that," Taylor said, but Chloe was already laughing too hard for a proper explanation. "Oh, forget it." Her head was starting to hurt.

When Chloe finally stopped laughing, using her sleeve to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes, Taylor spoke up. "Chloe, you said you're making dinner tonight, right?"

"Oh, sorry," Chloe said, "I'm actually meeting a study group from my ancient runes class."

"Well, rats," said Taylor.

"You could come out to dinner with me," John suggested.

"That's alright," Taylor said, flopping back onto her bed. "I'll just forage for myself in the fridge, I think. I have a lot of work to get caught up on."

Chloe caught John's look of disappointment and looked from him to Taylor, frowning.

"Alright, I'll see you at the library tomorrow then?" asked John, his hand on the door.

"Yep," said Taylor, pressing the heel of her hands into her eyes, trying to make her headache go away.

John waved goodbye to Chloe and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

After a moment, Chloe turned to Taylor.

"You idiot," she said.

"What?" asked Taylor, sitting up with a frown.

"Oh, nevermind," Chloe said, shaking her head and returning to her work. "You'll figure it out." She sighed. "Maybe."


	21. Salem

"Taylor! Wake up!"

Taylor sat up groggily as the bedsprings groaned under new weight. Rubbing sleep out of her eyes, Taylor realized Chloe was sitting at her feet, already fully dressed (_damn her morning-person-ish-ness_) and staring down at a copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Whazzit?" Taylor managed.

"Look," said Chloe, passing her the paper. Taylor blinked a few more times and then frowned down at the bold headline:

_SALEM SCHOOL OF MAGIC ATTACKED_

_Late last night, a group of at least twenty Death Eaters attacked the Salem School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, forcing entry through means that have not yet been determined. Thankfully, no students were injured, but many among the staff were wounded while trying to protect their charges. All injured professors have been taken to the nearest Wizarding hospital, Sacred Cauldron, in New York City, where trained mediwizards are feverishly trying to save one Salem professor who jumped in front of a curse meant for a student. Nicholas Miller, Professor of Arithmancy, took an unknown hex to the chest and is currently in critical condition and unlikely to pull through, according to one hospital official._

_Salem School's Headmaster Charles Denton released a statement this morning praising all his staff's actions in defending the school, and spoke especially about Professor Miller's sacrifice, asking witches and wizards everywhere to keep him in their thoughts. He also went on to detail plans to reinforce the security spells around the castle. While officials are still unsure how the Death Eaters were able to enter the castle, the Magical Law Enforcement Wizards are working with the best spell-builders in the United States to ascertain and protect against this strategy._

_This assault on our younger witches and wizards has put many parents of Hogwarts students on high alert, and despite Headmaster Albus Dumbledore's assurances that the highest precautions are being taken at the prestigious wizarding school, many such parents are threatening to have their children removed from the school for their own protection._

_"This is ridiculous," Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Transfiguration Minerva McGonagall was quoted as saying to one distressed mother. "There is no safer place for your children during such dark times, you silly twit."_

Taylor actually laughed at the final quote, but Chloe looked upset and pulled the paper out of her hands.

"This is serious, Taylor!" said Chloe, angrily.

"I know it is, for goodness sake," said Taylor, sobering as she stood up and stripped off her pajama bottoms, changing into a pair of jeans. "But Professor McGonagall—well, it's hard to explain. The point is—"

"The point is, this is the biggest attack in the States since we heard You-Know-Who was back," Chloe said, standing and shaking the paper for emphasis.

Taylor wiggled into an arguably too-small purple t-shirt with a gold star across the front, pulling the hem down as far as it would go, barely enough to keep the skin of her stomach from showing. Chloe looked at her skeptically, apparently forgetting the international wizarding crisis long enough to comment on Taylor's wardrobe choice.

"Can you even breathe in that thing?"

"Shut up," Taylor said, walking across the room to stick her hand out the window. It was raining. "It's a Prides shirt."

"Pride?" Chloe asked, as Taylor rummaged around in her drawers for a zip-up jumper.

"Prides," corrected Taylor, caught in an inside-out sleeve. "The Prides of Portree? Oh come on," she said at Chloe's puzzled look. "They're my Quidditch team! From my hometown! You've never heard of the Prides?"

"Oh, like you would know any of the US teams," said Chloe, defensively.

Taylor was saved from answering by an owl's appearance at the window. It stepped inside without being invited, but Taylor couldn't blame it; what started as a light drizzle had rapidly turned into a torrent, and raindrops the size of marbles were pelting the window. The small brown owl ruffled its feathers and stuck its leg out, offering Taylor the small letter.

She took it, turning it over in her hands. The ink was smudged and running in the rain, but it was still clearly addressed to Chloe. Taylor turned to hand it to Chloe and found the other girl looking very pale.

"Chloe?" Taylor asked worriedly.

"I have family at Salem," she said, quietly. Taylor's insides turned to ice and she only just found her voice again.

"But—the article said no students were hurt, right?"

Chloe didn't respond, hurriedly ripping open the envelope. Taylor watched her worried eyes scan the letter, and then her expression turned to disgust as she threw the letter down on her unmade bed.

"What is it?" Taylor asked, not sure if it was within her friend/roommate privileges to pick up the letter and read it herself as Chloe turned to kick her wastebasket so hard she put a dent in the side.

"They're taking my cousin out of school," Chloe said. "How _stupid_. On this one I'm with your Professor McGonagall. Idiots. I'm writing them right now."

Chloe searched through a few desk drawers before slamming the last one shut, knocking an ink bottle to the floor, which thankfully bounced once without breaking.

"What's the department you ask for Howlers from?" Chloe asked. "I don't have any with me."

"Department of Disciplinary Post," said Taylor. "Let me feed this owl before we send it back out in that mess." She clucked at the small owl, offering her arm, and it sprang to her elbow, shuffling sideways until it rested on her shoulder, hooting contentedly. Ducking low to walk through the closet into the kitchen, Taylor heard Chloe still muttering angrily under her breath.

Taylor pulled open cupboards, looking for bread, before spying a loaf already on the counter. Wondering momentarily if the kitchen could read minds, Taylor pulled out two slices of the course wheat bread and put them in the toaster.

"Are you thirsty?" she asked the owl. It ruffled its feathers, but remained silent. "I suppose that's a no; it's wet enough out there already." The owl shuffled from side to side on her shoulder while they waited, and when the toast sprang up (only slightly burnt), Taylor set one slice on the counter, which the owl immediately leapt on. Opening the fridge, Taylor pulled out strawberry jam for her own slice of toast.

Suddenly Taylor realized she should have asked if Chloe wanted anything.

"Chloe?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you want anything for breakfast?" Taylor called, leaning toward the door.

"No, I'm not hungry, thanks," came the reply. "How's that owl?"

Taylor turned to look at the little bird, which was pecking away at the toast with gusto.

"Spunky," said Taylor. "Ready any minute now."

As Taylor spoke, the owl shook off a few stray crumbs and flew back to her shoulder, startling her. She walked back into their room, turning off the kitchen lights and pulling the closet door shut behind her. The owl saw the envelope in Chloe's hand and hopped onto the desk, holding out one leg expectantly. Chloe carefully tied the letter on and carried the owl to the window, where it disappeared into the storm.

"I'd better wait for that Howler," said Chloe, sighing. "Tell Professor Pike I'm ill or something."

"I will," said Taylor, collecting the parchment and texts she'd need for their history of magic class. Elbowing her way out the room, Taylor stopped as Chloe put a hand on her shoulder.

"Taylor," said Chloe. "Be careful. I know, this sounds ridiculous, but Salem has a lot more protection than Wandslake does, and—well, be careful."

Taylor nodded. She left, and walking down the hall, she marveled at how quickly the wizarding world could change.


	22. Rain

Tension was high through all of Taylor's classes. People jumped at any unexpected noise, and more than once Taylor saw people walking across campus with and umbrella in one hand and a wand gripped tightly in the other. She herself was surprisingly calm, though unhappily wet. She had no umbrella, and the rain was only worsening. The wand seemed like a good idea though, so she pulled it from her bag and tucked it in the waist band of her jeans, just in case.

When Taylor returned to her room from her first few classes, Chloe was finishing the Howler, shouting fiercely into the red envelope she held open as wide as possible. Taylor carefully closed the door behind her without making any noise. She noticed an owl waiting on the windowsill as she grabbed a towel and attempted to wring out her soggy hair.

"…or I'll tell great-aunt Sally!" Chloe screamed finally, her voice reaching its peak in both pitch and volume. She licked the envelope and calmly pressed it closed on her desk. Then she startled Taylor by slamming her fist on it several times, shaking the desk violently.

After sending the Howler off through the continuing rain, the tiny owl clearly struggling to remain airborne, Chloe turned to see Taylor looking dumbfounded at her sudden outburst.

"I like to think it makes it angrier," explained Chloe, shrugging.

"Can't hurt," Taylor agreed, recovering her composure.

"You're dripping on the carpet," Chloe noted.

"Well, can you give me a hand here?"

Chloe pulled out her wand, flicking it at Taylor.

Taylor closed her eyes against the warm, gale-force wind of the drying spell. It stopped as suddenly as it started, and Taylor thankfully found her hair completely dry, if a bit tangled. She looked down at herself.

"My shoes are still soggy," she said with a frown.

"It never gets shoes," Chloe said, sitting on her bed and struggling to pull on neon pink rain boots. "There's no hope for it, they're a lost cause."

"Great," muttered Taylor, squishing over to her desk and toeing off her sneakers. She peeled off her socks and threw them at her hamper, missing by inches. They hit the wall with a wet _smack! _and slid down to the floor. She didn't bother picking them up again, instead collapsing onto her bed.

Chloe had finished suiting up for battle with the elements, rain boots joined by umbrella, thick jumper, and yellow rain slicker. She made to leave, but turned at the door.

"Hey, you want some lunch?" she asked. "I ate while I waited for the Howler to get here."

"No thanks," Taylor said to the ceiling. "I braved the cafeteria rather than make two trips across campus, here and back."

"Then…why are you back here?" Chloe asked, confused.

"I'm skipping afternoon classes," said Taylor. "I'd drown trying to get there anyway."

"Why not use a bubble-head charm, if you've got no umbrella?" Chloe suggested.

Taylor was silent for a moment before she propped herself up on her elbows and scowled fiercely at her roommate.

"Damn it Chloe," she said. "I was so happy to just stay here, warm and dry."

"So stay!" said Chloe, laughing.

"No, no," Taylor sighed, standing and searching in her drawers for another pair of socks. "Now I have a solution, which means I'd have guilt for not going."

"Okay, okay," Chloe said. "Hurry up and I'll walk with you as far as the compound."

Taylor borrowed dry shoes from Chloe—whose feet were slightly larger, enough to make Taylor trip once or twice—and performed the bubble-head charm on herself before the two of them stomped out into the rain. She found it somewhat disconcerting to see the rain sliding off the invisible bubble around her head, if possible making it even more difficult to see.

"Okay, here's where I leave you," Chloe said.

"Hey wait," Taylor said, suddenly. "Point me toward the transfiguration building?"

Chloe laughed and turned Taylor left a few degrees.

"I was close."

"See you tonight!" Chloe called over her shoulder.

Taylor carefully picked her way across the rest of the muddy compound. She was getting used to the distorted images coming through the bubble, and she was navigating the terrain much more comfortably.

Just feet from the building entrance, the ill-fitting shoes slipped on the slick grass and Taylor lost her footing, falling back hard, painfully jarring her tailbone. She heard laughter from behind her and someone grabbed her under the armpits, pulling her back to her feet.

"Thanks George," said Taylor, turning to see her friend and teammate. His flaming red hair was plastered to his skull, his fringe low and dripping into his eyes.

"You've got a good idea with this bubble-head thing," George said, casting the spell on himself and shaking his head vigorously, making his hair spike out at all angles. "We're both late, so no time to chat. I'll see you at practice. Think you can make it the last few feet on your own?"

Taylor didn't register the teasing comment, her mouth falling agape.

"Practice? You mean we'll actually have practice in this mess?" she asked, horrified.

"It's Oliver," George said shrugging, as though it were self-explanatory. Then he disappeared into the driving rain, leaving Taylor open-mouthed and speechless.

.

Thanks to Taylor's fall outside, sitting was an uncomfortable task; it made the last two classes of her day seem even longer. Both professors kept giving her odd looks, but she couldn't really blame them, seeing as how she kept shifting in her seat and wincing.

Exhausted and sore, Taylor left her magic composition classroom, bubble-head charm already in place. Several of her classmates followed suit, most saying, "Hey, good idea," and thanking her. Three of them collided just moments after they stepped outside into the rain, clearly unable to see properly out of their bubbles. Taylor tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile, but no one could see through her bubble anyway.

Trudging to the library to meet John, Taylor picked her way carefully through the grass, avoiding huge puddles that might hide potential sinkholes—she'd seen one unlucky upperclassmen suddenly drop knee deep in mud outside the transfiguration building, and didn't want to meet the same fate.

Luck didn't seem to be on her side, though, and she cursed as one foot sunk up to her ankle into the grass. She managed to stop herself before going down any further, but in pulling her foot out of the mud, she inadvertently pulled it out of her too-large borrowed shoe. Surprised, she could only watch it be quickly swallowed up by the growing puddle.

Taylor wondered what she dreaded more; having to walk around the rest of the day half-barefoot, or having to tell Chloe one of her shoes was buried somewhere in the compound. She grimaced, and climbed the stairs to the library.

"_Finite incantatem_," she breathed, the bubble enclosing her head vanishing with a quiet _pop!_ as she stepped into the warm building. The student working at the desk looked up at the sound and took in Taylor's appearance, eyebrows rocketing up his forehead as he looked down at her feet. He didn't say anything though, and Taylor was thankful as she squished her way to the table she and John usually worked at.

Surprisingly, John was not there waiting for her, as he had been before. Taylor congratulated herself on her punctuality and sat down with a grunt, having forgotten her bruised tailbone. Deciding she wanted to look studious and busy when John arrived, she quickly emptied a veritable mountain of homework from her bag, pulling her history book toward her first. She glanced behind her to see if John had appeared and foiled her plan, but the aisle was empty. Not many people were in the library today, and she suspected everyone would rather be in their rooms huddled under a mountain of blankets. She envied them.

Taylor worked diligently on her homework while she waited for John, and was more and more unsettled as time went on with no sign of him. More soon than she expected, her two hours were up, and she knew she had to head to practice. She'd finished nearly all her homework—though there was still one problem for composition that was kicking her ass—but John had never appeared. Now worried, she braced herself for the veritable hurricane outside and hoped someone at practice would know what had happened to him.


	23. Letter

Taylor fell again twice on her way to the stadium, and her tailbone was now a constant throbbing ache. She had no idea how she was going to sit on a broom for a three-hour practice, much less do it in this downpour.

Meeting no one on her way to the locker room—or so she assumed; who could tell through the rain?—Taylor heaved herself inside and leaned on the door, slumping down to the floor.

Mel was pulling on her practice robes and Ann and Donna were already dressed, putting on their padded leather arm and leg guards. They all turned when Taylor came in.

"Do we really have to go out there?" Taylor asked, miserably.

"Yep," said Ann, grimacing. "Good luck." She and Donna left, Mel shortly after, and Taylor hurried to catch up.

Once outside again, Taylor cast the bubble-head charm as she neared the rest of the team.

"Oh, brilliant!" said a male voice she didn't recognize. Through the rain she could see bubbles appearing around all her teammates' heads. She reasoned that George must be late, or they'd have seen his solution already.

Scanning the crowd, Taylor saw no sign of John and grimaced.

"Nope," came a more familiar voice, and Taylor saw a wand suddenly jab at her face, popping her bubble. She coughed, having inhaled a particularly large raindrop in surprise.

Blinking against the rush of water now streaming down her face, Taylor recognized Oliver. He turned and began walking through the crowd, and there were similar cries of protest and loud coughs as he popped each bubble in turn.

"No charms allowed in league play," Oliver called over the various grumblings. "And no cancellations on account of anything. This is the perfect opportunity to practice dealing with unpleasant weather."

" 'Un_pleasant?_' " said George incredulously, appearing across from Taylor at Paul's side. Oliver popped George's bubble-head charm, and George spluttered a disgruntled, "Hey!"

"Come on, in the air, the lot of you," Oliver said, mounting his broom and kicking off the muddy ground. "Standard warm-ups."

Taylor mounted her own Firebolt, miserable and shivering, half-wondering if Oliver might not actually be human. He seemed happy as a clam, though perhaps somewhat frustrated with his team's lack of enthusiasm. Taylor forced herself through her usual paces, and occasionally heard painful sounds of mid-air collisions due to poor visibility.

"Alright! In!" Oliver shouted finally, and everyone moved slowly toward his voice, careful to avoid any more collisions. After a few moments the team had appeared in a circle around him and Taylor saw all grim faces; undoubtedly hers was a mirror image.

"Okay, now we're going to practice a real match-like situation and have a good scrimmage," said Oliver. "I want Charles, Paul, Ann—"

"Alright, I've had enough!" Donna interrupted loudly. She shouted a spell Taylor didn't recognize and Oliver keeled over backwards. There was a series of gasps from the circle, but Donna cast a levitation charm on Oliver before he could fall more than a few inches. He was horizontal in mid-air as though on his back, his head lolling to one side, eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

"What did you _do?_" squeaked Ann.

"Somebody turn him over so he doesn't get rain in his mouth and drown," Donna said calmly, ignoring the question. Paul was closest, and he reached out, nudging Oliver's prone form with the toe of his boot until he rolled over, face down.

"What did you _do?_" Ann squeaked again, louder this time.

"It's just a particularly strong sleeping spell," Donna answered. "I want to get the hell off this pitch, and neutralizing Oliver seemed like the only choice."

"Oh man," said someone Taylor was fairly sure was Richard. "When he wakes up, we're all dead."

"Don't worry, I have it under control," said Donna cheerfully. "When he wakes up, he'll remember a successful practice."

"You can do that?" asked Charles.

"It's a snap. I'm majoring in memory alteration," Donna explained. "Next year I'm headed for the Muggle Relations Department in the Ministry, Obliviating the poor bastards that see more than they should."

"Brilliant!" said George happily. "Let's go."

They descended en masse, hurrying to respective locker rooms as Donna carefully steered Oliver to the sidelines. Taylor suddenly remembered she wanted to ask people about John and decided that, as his roommate, George was probably the best place to start. She changed direction abruptly, her boots sliding a good two feet before she made any headway toward the men's locker room.

"Wait!" she called. "George!"

A figure appeared out of the rain only a few steps in front of her and she crashed headlong into Paul, sending them both flying. Paul stood, practice robes covered in muck, and glared down at her where she sat in the muddy grass. He walked away without offering her any help getting up, so she managed to stand haphazardly on her own. George had apparently heard her call, though, and he materialized as unexpectedly as Paul.

"Hey," Taylor said breathlessly. "Do you know where John is? He didn't meet me, and now he's missed practice—what little there was."

"If he's smart, he's somewhere warm and dry, the sneaky bugger," said George. "He gets a free pass, doesn't he? Donna can just make Oliver remember him being here."

"I suppose," Taylor said. "But you don't know where he is?"

"No clue," George replied. Then he looked thoughtful. "D'you know, he wasn't even there when I woke up this morning. Weird, eh?"

.

By the time Taylor had showered, dressed, and survived the harrowing journey back to her room, she'd nearly forgotten her worry about John. Mostly she was too wet and bruised to remember anything other than the primal instinct for warmth and shelter. All she noticed on her return was Chloe's was absence.

Taylor figured it was just as well; she was so exhausted she just wanted to collapse. Glad to have spent her time in the library finishing homework, she kicked off her lone shoe without untying the laces and flopped onto her bed, planning to sleep for the next two weeks or so, just to catch up.

Some time later, Taylor realized Chloe was making a valiant, if hopeless, effort to rouse her from sleep. Cognizant enough to roll over and pull the pillow over her head, Taylor mumbled something non-committal.

"Taylor, come on," said Chloe, exasperatedly. "Wake up, there's an owl for you."

"What time is it?" Taylor asked, finally propping herself up on her elbows.

"Dark," Chloe replied. "And I wouldn't have bothered you, but this feathery twit won't even let me have your letter, and he won't leave either, so get up."

Taylor grudgingly stood, and the owl hopped over to her. She looked down at the letter it presented to her and frowned, turning it over in her hands.

"This has gone through Muggle post," said Taylor, yawning. "But look, the stamp's on the back like a seal, and it only has my name on the front. How on earth would it make it here?"

"Magic?" Chloe wryly suggested, raising an eyebrow.

Taylor ignored her, sluggishly opening the envelope and giving herself a paper cut in the process. She pulled out one page of hastily written script and unfolded it.

_Taylor—_

_I'm writing from the Muggle flight-place building in Edinburgh,  
I'm leaving soon, so sorry for the illegible letter. I don't like these  
new travel restrictions!_

_Sorry to have left you waiting at the library with no word, I had  
to leave for home—the States, that is—really early this morning,  
and I left in such a rush I didn't think to tell anyone where I'd gone.  
I'm sure you know about the Salem attack, and I had family injured  
there. Nick Miller, the prof that was hurt, is my Dad. I took my  
Mom's name when they split up, so probably no one there at  
Wandslake made the connection._

_Anyway, Dad's doing a little better, though the press is bent on  
making it sound much worse than it is. I'll be back in a week at  
the latest (I can't afford to miss any more class), so you won't  
have to go too long without my pestering. I have this horrible  
feeling that without me there to stop you, you'll add three more  
classes to your schedule. __**DON'T**__, do you hear me? I'm sorry I  
even gave you the idea._

—_John_

_P.S. I just found out I don't have enough Muggle money for another  
of these sticky square things, and I was going to write Oliver to make  
sure he doesn't kill me for skipping practice today. Will you let him  
know what's going on? Thanks._

Wondering momentarily what John meant about "new travel restrictions," Taylor scanned the letter over again to make sure her still-groggy-from-sleep brain had understood everything.

"Sure," she said to the piece of parchment, discarding it as she crawled back into bed and fell into a fitful sleep.


	24. George!

Taylor had no memory of setting an alarm, but here she was, bleary-eyed and at least partially awake while the sun was only just beginning to cast a pink hue on the retreating rain clouds.

She turned her head and blinked in the dim light, expecting to see her roommate jabbing at her with the end of a broom in some new effort to wake her. Instead she saw Chloe still curled up tightly in her comforter, breathing the slow rhythm of sleep untroubled by dreams.

Wishing her own sleep had been as restful, Taylor sat up in bed and wondered with some anxiety why she was awake. In her experience, it took no less than a good-sized explosion to rouse her, and the rare occasions she woke of her own accord always coincided with unsettling situations. The last time it happened, Taylor had stepped out into the Ravenclaw common room just in time to wrestle a jinxed wool scarf from around the neck of a second-year being strangled and nearly hanged by it.

Still, nothing seemed out of the ordinary this morning, though just to be safe Taylor walked to the door and peeked out into the hall. Nothing.

Feeling more or less reassured, she closed the door again and slid back into the warmth of her blankets, fully intending to fall asleep again and not get up until five minutes before class. Unfortunately, the sunrise was shining bright across her face now and no matter how she turned, it burned painfully through her eyelids.

Grumbling quietly to herself, Taylor propped herself up on her elbows and reached for the wand she'd left on her desk, planning to charm the curtains into place across the windows. Her fingers met parchment rather than elm, and she paused. She grasped the paper and brought it close enough to see through still-sleepy eyes.

It was John's letter.

Comprehension dawned as she recognized it, and she remembered the closing lines. _…I was going to write Oliver…will you let him know what's going on?_

She put the parchment down again and rolled up tighter in her blankets, resolving to talk to Oliver before class.

Wait—oh damn, she thought. What if he has an eight o'clock class? Her classes didn't start until ten on Tuesdays, and she'd planned to sleep for another two hours or so. She glanced up at the clock and winced. 7:30.

Taylor groaned, and quickly stifled the noise as Chloe snuffled loudly and rolled over.

Again braving the cold outside her comfy bed, Taylor rose and stretched properly, her back popping audibly in several places. She chose a long-sleeved sweater from her closet and then struggled to keep her balance on one foot as she pulled on a pair of jeans. Cramming her thick-wool-stocking feet into shoes was a quite a feat, but she managed it, and she stuffed John's letter into her back pocket to show Oliver.

Taylor gave her teeth a quick brush in the kitchen, desperate to get rid of that morning-mouth feeling, and then left, locking the door behind her. She trekked out of the first year dorms and across the campus toward the apartment building where the rest of the team lived. It was still freezing cold and soggy outside after the rainstorm, and she hugged herself tightly to keep warm as she walked hurriedly down one of the cement paths past the library.

Suddenly behind her there was a muffled explosion. She turned, alarmed, and drew her wand in an instant, watching as something rocketed up out of a nearby mud puddle. The projectile reached the peak of its arc and Taylor realized it was likely to land just where she was standing. She hurriedly stepped out of the way, letting it land a few feet to her left with a wet _thunk!_

It was a shoe. A very muddy, familiar-looking shoe. She blinked, disbelieving, and bent to pick up the missing shoe she'd borrowed from Chloe the day before. There was the sound of another muddy explosion and Taylor narrowly missed being speared by a large umbrella shooting out from the nearby ground like a missile.

Taylor stood in stunned confusion as more and more objects began bursting out of the ground. Regaining her senses, she grabbed the umbrella that had almost skewered her and opened it, using it as a makeshift shield from the downpour of items doubtlessly claimed by the giant muddy sinkholes during the rainstorm. A spiky high-heeled sandal bounced down on one of the supporting tines of her umbrella, bending it out of shape as she ran through the melee of lost objects. Pocket change was now raining down and clattering onto the pavement, and a sudden spray of quills shot past her like ink-tipped darts. By the time she reached the apartment complex, she was out of breath and had various bruises from the flying debris.

Discarding the battered umbrella once inside the door, Taylor took the stairs two at a time up to her teammates' flat. She reached the top landing of the building and headed for the door on the left when suddenly the hall lights overhead exploded in a shower of sparks and shards of glass. She shouted in alarm, dropping the muddy shoe she carried and throwing her arms up to protect her face. Ducking low and scrambling for the guys' flat, Taylor groped blindly for the doorknob she knew was somewhere in front of her.

Finding it, Taylor hurled herself into pitch black of the central living room, no windows to cast light inside.

"Hello?" she called.

"Hunh?"

"Who's that!"

"What's going on?"

Taylor pulled her wand from her pocket.

"_Lumos,_" she said.

"Whoa!"

The initial flare threw light to all corners of the room and Taylor discovered that several of her teammates slept only in boxers—they all yelped and darted back into their rooms.

As the tip of Taylor's wand dimmed to the standard intensity, Charles stepped into the limited circle of light cast by her spell. Taylor inadvertently glanced down and was relieved to see baggy plaid pajama pants reaching to Charles' shins before disappearing into the darkness outside the range of her wandlight.

"Taylor?" said Charles, squinting at her.

"Yeah," Taylor said, walking toward him. "What happened? I—"

Taylor tripped over something bulky lying across the floor and fell, her wand flying out of her hand and bouncing off the wall. She landed hard on her side, with one funny-bone uncomfortably jarred and the wind knocked out of her.

"Taylor," Charles said, sounding alarmed. He bent down to offer a hand. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," said Taylor, groaning and rubbing her elbow. She turned to see what she'd tripped over and gasped. The light from her fallen wand shone across a face, eyes open, pale features frozen in a clear expression of shock.

"George!"


	25. Minty?

For a moment Taylor was frozen in terror as all the air squeezed out of her lungs. She stared at George, his wide blank eyes staring back right through her, and she felt as though the room had gone deathly cold.

A hand closed too tightly around her upper arm and Taylor was dragged back to a sitting position, pulled painfully out of her stunned reverie. She looked back at Charles, who was still stuck in a half-crouch from when he'd stooped down to help Taylor to her feet.

"Merlin," he whispered.

The rest of the team was coming back out of various bedrooms, fully-clothed now, and everyone was talking loudly and at once.

"Charles, what's going on?"

"Is that Taylor?"

"What's she doing here?"

"Everybody shut up, _shut up!_" bellowed Charles.

No doubt surprised by the harsh tone in Charles' usually calm voice, everyone fell silent. Taylor saw fear and uncertainty clear in Charles' face, but her attention was drawn away at a sudden shout of alarm. Someone had evidently seen George lying unmoving on the ground between them.

Taylor's own rapid heartbeat began thundering in her ears, somehow drowning out the cacophony of voices filling the room. Charles, apparently unfazed by the noise around them, rolled George onto his back.

There was something clutched tightly in George's right hand. It was an electrical cord, disappearing off into the dark outside the distorted circle of light from Taylor's fallen wand. Stripped copper wire was visible protruding from George's fist, and Taylor was struck with a terrifying thought. A quick glance at her surroundings revealed a nearby electrical outlet, and the cold she felt increased tenfold.

"He's not breathing," she said, suddenly realizing, putting one hand on George's still chest. She felt desperately for a pulse at his wrist and found none. "His heart isn't beating!" Taylor croaked, her voice coming out broken and weak as she tried not to hyperventilate in panic.

"Charles, do something!" someone shouted, more loudly than the rest.

"I need my wand." He was already pushing through the gathering crowd, which closed in around Taylor in his wake.

"_Ennervate,_" said a voice behind Taylor. A burst of silver light shot over her shoulder and hit George squarely in the chest.

George's body seized once, his spine arching away from the floor as his limbs jerked fitfully. His eyes opened even more widely for a moment before falling finally shut as his body went limp and collapsed.

"Stop it!" shouted Taylor, turning to knock aside the wand-hand of one huge, broad-shouldered teammate. He was looking back down at her, frightened and confused. "This isn't magic!" she told him, hoarsely.

That's it, she realized._  
_

"This isn't magic," Taylor said again, more to herself than anyone else as she spun back to face where George lay. "Magic isn't going to help."

Taylor knelt at George's side, thinking hard. It had been a long time since she'd taken that Muggle first-aid class (at her mother's insistence), and she tried desperately to remember what to do. She carefully tilted George's head back, his chin pointed at the ceiling, and pinched his nose shut. She took a deep, shaking breath before pressing her mouth to his and pushing air forcibly into his lungs.

Around her she was vaguely aware of a marked increase in shouting and confusion and as she sat up again someone grabbed her shoulder. She shrugged it off with a sharp, wordless growl, and the restraining hand did not return.

Pressing the heel of her hand into George's sternum, Taylor covered it with the other hand and pushed down. His ribs bowed awkwardly under her weight and she settled into an uncomfortable rhythm, compressing his chest repeatedly. She bent to repeat the breaths, feeling a growing terror at the cool clamminess of George's mouth under her own.

With each compression of George's chest, Taylor's heart sank a little lower as he still didn't wake. Her head felt heavy, blank and numb now, as though it were packed in ice. The shouting all around her seemed muffled and it echoed hollowly through her body. All she saw were shadows cast across George's closed eyes from her own forgotten wand. Dread was growing, coiled tightly somewhere in her gut, but she pushed it out of her thoughts as best she could.

No_, _she thought. No, no, no, no, no…

The fourth time she blew her own breath into George's lungs, he coughed, forcing air painfully back into Taylor's mouth and making her ears pop with the pressure. Startled, she fell back on her hands, coughing, sliding sideways to the wall at her left, the cool surface anchoring her.

Suddenly all the noise and chaos of the situation rushed back to her in force, nine people's bellows and cries thundering in her ears. Her heart was beating furiously against her ribs and she struggled to breathe evenly.

Charles had returned, appearing again in the dim light across from her. He knelt on the carpet next to George, who had rolled onto his side away from Taylor, still coughing. Charles stared from Taylor to George, and back up again.

"What did you do?" he asked, over the din, but Taylor just shook her head, swallowing hard. Tears of both relief and residual terror were welling in her eyes and she blinked furiously against them, still trying to catch her breath. Charles frowned worriedly at her once, but turned his attention back to George, who was attempting to push himself up on his elbows. Charles forced George back down, trying to control both his reluctant patient and the rest of his flustered flat mates.

Taylor let her head fall back against the wall, closing her eyes tight against tears and feeling herself start to shake slightly. She held her breath, hoping to slow her heartbeat, and tried to block out the terrified voices of her shouting teammates.

"What in the seven hells is going on?" boomed a new voice from the door, startling Taylor and jump-starting her breathing again as she gasped. She recognized Oliver's familiar voice.

Charles looked up from where he was checking George's eyes with light from his wand and caught sight of Taylor, who was still shaking and breathing hard.

"Oliver, get her out of here," Charles said over the rest of the noise, nodding toward Taylor.

"Charles," Oliver started, confusion and anxiety clear in his voice, "what—"

"Just do it!" roared Charles, making Taylor jump again. She shifted against the wall, beginning to stand, and felt more hot tears threatening to squeeze out the corner of her eyes. She wiped them away surreptitiously on one sleeve.

Much to Taylor's surprise, Oliver crouched down next to her and gathered her up in his arms. She opened her mouth to protest even as her arms went around his neck automatically, and before she could say a word Oliver was carrying her swiftly down the short hall just past the kitchen.

Taylor suddenly picked George's voice out from among everyone else's confused shouting.

"What happened?" George was asking. Then, after a pause, "Why is my mouth minty?"


	26. Aftermath

Oliver turned sideways to push open the door to the room at the end of the hall and Taylor caught a quick glimpse of the continued confusion behind them before Oliver deposited her carefully on one of the low beds. He kicked the door shut again, blocking out most of the noise, and tried the light switch, swearing when the room remained dark.

On the bed, Taylor sat up quickly, swinging her legs over the side and wiping at her eyes again with shaking hands. She tried to steady her breathing as she heard the sounds of Oliver moving around nearby.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" he demanded from the shadows.

"What—me?" asked Taylor, confused. "No, it's George, he—"

"_Lumos._"

Taylor blinked as wandlight flared to life, revealing Oliver kneeling on the floor in front of her, looking anxious. His eyes went wide in alarm.

"Oh hell, you're bleeding," Oliver said, reaching forward to push her hair out of her face, his hand resting warm against her ear for a moment.

"What?" asked Taylor, her heart racing again even as her brows knit in confusion. She began to reach one hand to her face when it passed into the circle of wandlight and she saw it was smeared with blood. "Wh—what?" she said again, more panicked, looking down at her hands. Both were stained red, as was one of her sleeves.

"There's a cut just along your right eye," Oliver said. He had grabbed a half-empty glass of water from the nightstand and was dumping its contents on the carpet. The room went dark again as Oliver put out his wand, pointing the tip down inside the empty glass.

Oliver muttered an incantation Taylor couldn't make out, and bright blue flames flared to life, settling fitfully in the bottom of the glass. He set the glass down on the floor between them, and the flickering blue flames cast strange shadows across their faces. Oliver produced a cloth from the tip of his wand with another quiet spell and then set the wand aside, shuffling closer to Taylor.

Taylor was still feeling numb, staring dumbstruck and terrified at the blood on her hands, when she felt Oliver reach for her face again. She felt the fingers of his left hand brush past her ear and settle in the hair near the back of her neck. Oliver turned her chin slightly and forced Taylor's gaze away from her hands. She let them rest, palms up, in her lap as she looked up into Oliver's face. Outwardly, he seemed calm, but she thought she could see both concern and fear in his eyes.

Oliver was now cradling the right side of Taylor's face carefully, and he daubed gently at her temple with the cloth.

It stung, and Taylor winced. She closed her eyes.

They didn't speak as Oliver quickly and efficiently cleaned her cut. His quiet calm seemed palpable in the dimly lit room, and Taylor let it wash over her, feeling her breathing even out as her body finally relaxed. She took a deep breath and let out one final sigh, letting the last of her adrenaline-fueled tension slip away. George is alright_,_ she thought. Everything's fine.

Even as these calming thoughts crossed her mind, a pitch-black shadow swept silently from the corner and knocked over the drinking glass on the floor. The Bluebell Flames inside spilled out like liquid and spread across the carpet in a brilliant arc. Oliver swore, snatching his wand from where it lay on the bedspread. At the same time, a weight landed unexpectedly in Taylor's lap and she jumped, gasping in surprise, feeling her heartbeat double as the adrenaline surged through her veins again. She felt tiny sharp pinpricks of pain on the tops of her thighs as the weight latched onto her, trying not to be unseated by Taylor's sudden startled movement.

Taylor made a strained noise and sat still a moment, waiting until the weight in her lap began to purr and release its rather painful hold on her legs.

"Damn it, Kali!" said Oliver, using his wand to scoop the blue flames back into the drinking glass.

"It's alright," said Taylor, hoping her voice wasn't as shaky as she felt at the moment. She moved one hand to pet the cat in her lap but stopped abruptly as she remembered the blood still on her palms. Retrieving the cloth Oliver had dropped, she hurriedly wiped both her hands clean and dry before stroking the soft fur along Kali's spine.

Oliver righted the glass again once he had the flames safely contained. He reached out with one hand as though to remove the cat, but Taylor leaned forward, gathering all Kali's spindly limbs in her arms and hugging the animal to her chest.

"No, it's alright," Taylor said again. The cat was lying limply on its back in Taylor's grasp, and the purring increased tenfold. Taylor could feel the hum of it resonating in her own chest cavity, and it was having a wonderfully calming effect on her. She welcomed it. Kali extended one forelimb to paw gently at Taylor's nose.

"Taylor," said Oliver, his hands cupping her face and pulling her gaze back to meet his. "You have to tell me what happened now, alright?" He spoke quickly but calmly, his voice serious and his eyes never leaving hers. "How did you get this cut? What happened to George? Were you attacked?"

Taylor's thoughts were reeling. She tried to answer him, but all she could register was that his hands were warm against her skin and his eyes were piercing and dark, looking searchingly into hers.

"I—no, no one was attacked," Taylor said, once she had her thoughts aligned again. "I don't know how I got the cut. Maybe the glass—I got up here and all the lights exploded. Then I got inside, and George was on the ground, he wasn't breathing." She dropped her eyes, unfocused.

Taylor shivered at the memory of George's eyes, wide and blank and unseeing. Oliver's thumb moved across her cheekbone in what might have been intended as an encouraging or perhaps comforting gesture, and it was like a shock to her system and her eyes snapped back up to meet his. He nodded for her to continue.

"I, uh...everyone was shouting, and Charles went to get his wand, and I did CPR—it's a Muggle thing," Taylor inserted at Oliver's confused look. "Then George started breathing again, and that's when you came in."

Surprisingly, Oliver looked relieved to hear her explanation.

"But you're alright?" he asked, pushing her long hair back from where it had fallen into of her face.

"Yes, I'm fine." And she almost believed it.

"And George?"

"I don't know," Taylor said, glancing sideways at the door. She remembered the wire clasped tightly in George's fist. "I think he almost electrocuted himself."

"But he's breathing." Oliver said, and Taylor nodded. "Then Charles will be able to take care of any damage from the electricity."

This time it was Taylor's turn to look confused.

"Believe it or not," Oliver said, now actually cracking a weak smile, "Quidditch-specific Mediwizardry includes knowing how to handle the situation if a player is struck by lightning."

Taylor couldn't help letting out a short laugh, and it was a relief after so much confusion and panic. She breathed another deep sigh, and bent to nuzzle the cat in her arms.

"George is going to be alright," she said aloud, though it was muffled by the soft fur of Kali's stomach.

"Yes," said Oliver, one hand stroking Taylor's hair and then settling on her shoulder. "He's going to be fine."

At these words, the lights sprang to life above them. Taylor and Oliver looked up in unison.

"Well," said Oliver, blinking against the glare, "the electricity's back on. Shall we go see what's going on out there?"

Taylor realized the shouting and commotion down the hall had stopped at some point. She nodded to Oliver, and let him pull her up by the elbow.

"But I'm taking the cat," she said, hugging Kali protectively to her chest again as she stood.

Oliver just grinned and nodded. He led Taylor to the door, holding it open and ushering her through with a hand at the small of her back. There was some comfort in Oliver's touch, and the cat had started purring again, which also calmed her. She steeled herself for questioning once they rejoined the rest of the team.

They reached the kitchen, and Taylor saw George looking perfectly healthy, if a bit shaken, sitting up against the far wall. Charles knelt next to him, and he was saying something to Taylor's other teammates. Paul and Richard and two others (whose names, for the life of her, Taylor couldn't remember), were standing with their backs facing the hall.

Charles glanced up when he noticed Taylor and Oliver. He stood, looking relieved.

"The building manager has just come and gone," said Charles to Oliver.

The four standing men turned to look, stepping back to form a loose circle including Taylor and Oliver. Taylor gently squeezed the cat in her arms for comfort, and noticed Oliver's hand still warm at her back.

"He said he's got it all fixed," continued Charles, "but he told us to knock it the hell off, whatever happened—"

"Which was what, exactly?" interrupted Oliver, looking pointedly at George. George opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by the broad-shouldered teammate whose name Taylor _still_ couldn't remember.

"More importantly, what's _she _doing here," said the big guy, pointing to Taylor, "and what the bloody hell did she do to George?"

"Do to me?" asked George, looking questioningly up at Taylor.

"I—" began Taylor.

"She was kissing you, or something," Richard said, and George glanced at him, looking appalled.

"_What?_" said George. He turned back to look accusingly at Taylor.

"No," said Taylor quickly, "I was—"

"You kissed me, and I _missed it?_" interrupted George, incredulous.

"I wasn't kissing you!" Taylor said, frustrated. "I was breathing for you!"

"Breathing!" exclaimed the second nameless teammate.

Up to this point, Paul had been standing across the circle from Taylor with his arms crossed, not saying anything. Now he spoke up, and he was practically shouting.

"Breathing? She brought him back to life!" said Paul. "That's not natural! That's dark magic!"

The cat in Taylor's arms turned suddenly to hiss menacingly at Paul.

"No it isn't!" shouted Taylor, furious. She tried to argue further, but by now everyone was shouting again and Kali continued growling and hissing.

"I _saw_ her doing it—"

"All she did was—"

"She couldn't possibly—"

"I wasn't even _doing_ magic, you—"

"I was _dead?_"

"ENOUGH!"

Charles and Oliver had bellowed the word in unison, and it was enough to quiet even Kali and make everyone else in the circle take a step back (excepting George, who still sat, looking anxious). Taylor and Paul were still glaring daggers at each other and the other two teammates looked worried.

Charles gave his captain a deferential nod, and Oliver stepped forward slightly.

"Look," said Oliver, calmly, his hands out and low in a placating gesture. "Everybody just...calm down. Why don't we all have breakfast together and try to sort out what happened?"

There was a long silence, but people's heads were beginning to nod in agreement, and the atmosphere in the room became somewhat less charged.

"Okay," said Charles, cheerfully. "I'll make omelets!"

He was met with a unanimous and alarmed "_No!_" from the crowd, and he scowled.


	27. Breakfast

Taylor found herself at the kitchen counter, sandwiched between the protective bulks of Charles and Oliver. The cat sitting in her lap was silent, but it continued to stare across the counter at Paul, who equally silently glared back.

The rest of the team sat similarly quietly in the remaining seats, everyone somewhat cramped with all eight of them squeezing around the counter, sitting four on either side. They were an interesting-looking group, all but Taylor and Oliver still clad in pajamas.

Charles, who was still somewhat put out at yet another indecorous comment on his culinary skills, had set bowls and milk and cereal out on the counter. Everyone helped themselves without speaking, and for a while the only sounds in the kitchen were the clinking of spoons against bowls and the crunching of cereal.

"So," said George, after a while. Seven faces looked toward George in time to see his expression contort again into one of serious concern and confusion. "I was _dead?_"

"You were not dead," Taylor and Charles said immediately.

"He wasn't breathing," Richard pointed out.

"He didn't _ennervate,_" added the broad-shouldered teammate who had earlier tried to use the spell to wake George.

"It wasn't magic!" Taylor exclaimed, again.

"It was dark magic," hissed Paul.

"Would you shut up?" demanded Taylor, her voice going shrill.

Oliver slammed both of his palms down on the kitchen counter, making Taylor start as well as making several bowls of cereal jump. Some milk sloshed out of Oliver's bowl onto the counter, and Kali seized the opportunity to leap from Taylor's lap and began licking up the spill.

"No more shouting!" said Oliver. "Let's get this figured out right now. What George was doing, why Taylor was here, what happened, we all want to know. So," he paused, turning to George. "Why don't you start the explanations?"

George swallowed an overly large mouthful of cereal and pulled up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe a dribble of milk running down his chin.

"Alright," said George, smoothing his shirt down again. "Well."

Taylor had abruptly stopped listening, however, because she suddenly remembered the original reason she had come to the guys' flat. She pulled John's letter from her back pocket and raised her hand for a moment to attract everyone's attention without interrupting George.

Paul rolled his eyes at the gesture and seemed to have no reservations about disrupting George's narrative.

"Merlin's beard," he said, his voice dripping with contempt as he shook his head at Taylor. "What are you, six?"

A scathing retort full of some very colorful language was on the tip of Taylor's tongue, and she jumped to her feet.

At least, she would have risen, had Oliver's hand not suddenly clamped down hard on her thigh under the counter. It surprised her enough to keep her in her seat, and she looked, startled, to Oliver.

"Taylor," he said sternly. His tone and his eyes were a warning against losing her temper, and Taylor bit back the remark. Then she glanced down at her lap, Oliver's hand still on her leg. It disappeared at once and Oliver looked momentarily flustered, clearing his throat. "You had something to say?"

"Yes," she said through clenched teeth, still fighting back the words meant for Paul. She handed Oliver the letter and explained to the rest of the group, "John wrote me last night. He had to go back to America, very suddenly, without telling anyone."

Everyone looked at Taylor questioningly.

"For family matters," supplied Oliver, who had finished the short letter and handed it back to Taylor. "I think he'd prefer to keep it private."

"I'm sure he'll explain when he returns," Taylor said, trying to placate those with concerned looks.

"In any case, we're a player short now, for the jamboree," said Oliver, frowning.

"Honestly, Oliver, is that all you care about?" asked the skinnier of the two teammates whose names Taylor didn't know. (If she had to guess, he would be Gary and the other, bigger guy would be Kyle.)

"It's all we can do anything about right now," replied Oliver, defensively. "And it's a legitimate concern!"

"Can we get back to George's explanation?" Charles interrupted diplomatically, clearly trying to end the situation.

It worked, and everyone quieted again and turned back to George.

"As I was saying," continued George, as though nothing had interrupted him, "I was expecting a package from home last night. My dad was sending along a few Muggle electronics for the flat, to go along with the telly."

He gestured toward the common area, and Taylor turned and noticed for the first time a large set of shelves with a television in the middle. The shelving was built of dark-colored wood and seemed to have plenty of empty compartments with room for more electronic equipment.

"The package didn't get here till dawn, though, 'cause our owl's rubbish," George went on. "Speaking of which..." He whistled shrilly, and called, "Errol!"

Everyone turned to watch an old owl emerge haphazardly from George's and John's room. He flew as if lopsided, and occasionally emitted small puffs of molting feathers which floated to the floor like a thick grey layer of dust. The owl finally swerved into the kitchen and crashed headlong into George's half-empty bowl of cereal, splattering Paul and Charles and (perhaps) Gary with soggy Weetabix.

"Sorry, mates," said George, quickly removing the owl from the bowl and placing him right-side-up on the counter. The owl let out one final puff of dead feathers, and people moved their bowls away.

"Is he alright?" asked Taylor. She noticed the cat was eyeing the half-drowned owl curiously, and made the decision to scoop Kali back into her lap.

"Oh, he'll be fine," George said, casually. "But you can see he's not exactly in his prime anymore. So the package got to me bloody early this morning instead of last night. John wasn't around to get woken up by accident, so I thought, might as well open it now."

"What was in the package?" asked Oliver. "Specifically."

"Something called a 'DVD player,' " said George, enthusiastically. "It shows Muggle films on the telly. I thought we could have a team party tonight and watch one."

"And what exactly did you with this—deevedie player?" Charles asked. "The building manager said you shorted out the whole building, whatever that means."

"You broke all the lights in the stairs," offered Oliver.

"Well not on purpose, obviously," George was saying.

Scraping the bottom of her bowl, Taylor took her last bite of cereal. Mind wandering, she recalled vividly the moment on the stairs when the lights had burst, and wondered briefly how Oliver knew of it. Then she remembered that Oliver had not been in the flat when she got there, and that he'd only shown up mid-crisis after she'd revived George. Taylor wondered briefly what he was doing out so early in the morning, but then heard something of what George was saying.

She almost choked on the cereal.

"What did you say?" Taylor spluttered, coughing. Charles clapped her on the back helpfully. She pitched forward significantly from the weight of the blow but kept her eyes fixed determinedly on George.

"The plug didn't fit," repeated George, looking puzzled as to the vehemence of her reaction. "So I cut it off."

"And did what?" Taylor asked in disbelief. "Shoved the end of the cord into the outlet?"

"Well," said George, rubbing the back of his neck and looking uncomfortable. "Yeah."

"Good god!" Taylor rested her elbows on the counter and leaned down to rub her temples furiously, marveling at the stupidity of the situation.

After a moment, she realized everyone was looking at her oddly. She looked across the counter from one curious face to the next.

"Aren't—aren't any of you Muggle-born?" she asked. Around her, seven heads shook from side to side. "Good grief," she muttered. Then, louder, "Don't they teach you anything in Muggle Studies classes?"

All Taylor's teammates looked somewhat cowed at her expression of mingled frustration and disbelief. Leaving aside the situation for a moment, Taylor found it hilarious that she could intimidate all these heavily-muscled Quidditch players.

"They cover eckletricity," said one, hesitatingly. It was the skinny bloke Taylor thought to be Gary. "But only a little. Really they just tell us it's dangerous and it doesn't mix well with magic."

"Well it _is_ dangerous," said Taylor, severely. "George messed around with it and it nearly killed him."

She saw Paul don a fresh scowl and open his mouth but she rounded on him before he could speak.

"I said nearly!" she barked, and Paul sat back, tight-lipped, folding his arms tightly across his chest.

Taylor frowned, scrunching her eyes closed and pinching the bridge of her nose, hard. "I'm going to have to put plastic child-safety plugs in all your outlets," she sighed, preparing for a long explanation.


	28. Eckletronics

Over the next half hour, Taylor explained as much about electricity as she could, finishing her lecture with the cautionary tale of George's near-electrocution.

"The shock stopped his heart," Taylor told the rest of her team. George looked particularly pale. "I started it again, using a _Muggle procedure—_" here she looked pointedly at Paul. "—called CPR. I don't really know enough about it to explain properly... Chest compressions manually kept the blood pumping, and rescue breathing pushed air into his lungs 'til he started breathing on his own. There's nothing magic about it."

Charles was frowning, thoughtfully.

"This seems like something we should cover in Mediwizard training, Muggle-based or no," Charles said. "I think I'll talk to my advisor about it."

"Well," said Oliver, speaking to the group as a whole. "Is that enough explanation for everyone? I know some of us have class to get to." There was a flurry of checking of watches and nearly everyone excused themselves from the kitchen in a hurry.

Taylor didn't wear a watch, but she didn't have class until ten o'clock, and felt reasonably sure she still had time to spare. She felt exhausted from the physical and emotional stresses of the morning and she sighed, leaning back and holding the edge of the counter to balance herself. She was taken by surprise as two strong arms enveloped her from behind and pulled her backwards into a huge hug. A chin rested on her shoulder, and she heard George's voice in her ear.

"Thanks, Taylor," he said. "I owe you one."

"Just...don't ever do anything that stupid again, alright?" said Taylor, turning to face him once he'd released her.

"I'll do my best," said George, grinning. "Uh, I do have a favor to ask, though."

Taylor raised an eyebrow, half questioning and half skeptical.

"You're Muggle-born," he said. "Would you have a look at the DVD player for me? See if it's salvageable?"

"Sure," agreed Taylor wistfully, too tired and relieved to really argue. "Why not?"

They left the kitchen together, Taylor carefully transferring Kali from her lap to the floor, and walked around the couch in the common area. The DVD player was sitting on a shelf above the television, and what Taylor presumed to be severed end of the cord was peeking out from behind the shelving along the floor to the right. She knelt down beside the cord and picked it up, carefully touching only the plastic encased part of the wiring. Looking at the twisted copper wire protruding from the end, Taylor remembered seeing it clutched tightly in George's hand and shivered.

"Never do anything like that again," repeated Taylor, quietly. George stood behind her, but didn't say anything.

Some distance away from the cord, Taylor found the plug George had removed, and she turned it over in her hands.

"Ah, see?" Taylor said. "That's an American plug, no wonder it didn't fit." She turned around, still on her knees, to show George.

"There's different kinds of plugs?" asked Richard, who was standing next to George, leaning over to examine the plug. Taylor seemed to be drawing a bit of a crowd. Oliver was standing behind the two others, and in the kitchen Taylor could see Charles paying attention even as he cleaned up the dishes from breakfast.

"Uh," said Taylor, surprised at her audience. "Yeah. I'm going to try transfiguring the plug into a European one and then mend the cord. Oh, no, hang on," she stopped abruptly, checking her pockets. She couldn't remember what had happened to her wand during all the commotion and she started to panic.

"Here, I've got it," Charles called from the kitchen. He walked across to where Taylor was kneeling and drew her wand from the pocket of his pajamas. Taylor took it gratefully and turned back to her work.

"I thought Gary said magic and electricity don't mix," commented George, as Taylor tapped the plug with her wand. It changed shape immediately, becoming recognizable as a European plug. Taylor noted absently that her guess was right about her two teammates' names.

"True," replied Taylor after a moment. "Mixing magic and Muggle technology is pretty much always a sketchy endeavor, but..." She carefully fused the newly made plug back onto the end of the cord with a quick _repairo_ spell. "...let's give it a try anyway, shall we?"

She brandished the mended cord and plug at the wall, stretching it nearly taut to reach the outlet.

"Might we all want to step back a few paces before she plugs that in?" asked Charles, warily.

"Ha ha," said Taylor sarcastically, but she swallowed nervously all the same. "You probably should, actually. Just to be safe." She glanced over her shoulder and saw George and Richard both hastily move around behind the couch. Charles looked doubtful, and Oliver started moving forward with his hand out to stop her.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Oliver began, but Taylor just took a deep breath and pushed the plug into the outlet.

Nothing happened.

She let out the breath she was holding, and turned to smile over her shoulder. There was an inscrutable expression on Oliver's face, and he stood with his hand still stretched out, fingers inches from Taylor's shoulder.

"It's fine," she assured him. "It might not work, but it's not going to explode."

"Turn it on," called George, still in relative safety behind the couch with Richard.

Taylor stood, using Oliver's still-outstretched hand for balance, and walked to the front of the DVD player. With some trepidation (she couldn't actually be certain it _wouldn't_ explode), she pressed the power button.

The little red light above the DVD tray winked on and Taylor laughed as the message "WELCOME" scrolled across the display.

"I think it'll work," said Taylor, pleased. George let out an excited whoop. Then he jumped over the couch and disappeared into his room. Oliver and Taylor exchanged confused looks and Oliver shrugged.

"Well, I have to get to class," said Richard, retreating to his own room to change and get his school things. "I'll see you all at practice."

"See you," chorused Taylor, Oliver, Charles, and also Kyle and Paul, who were already at the door, headed out to the stairs and, presumably, class.

George reappeared at Taylor's side a moment later with a large cardboard box in his arms.

"Here, set up the rest!" he said, breathlessly.

"The rest?" asked Taylor, wondering how on earth that bedraggled owl, which was still passed out on the kitchen counter, could possibly have carried such a weight. She peered into the box and saw a set of speakers and some assorted DVDs. "I suppose I could," she admitted. She hadn't yet connected the DVD player to the television, so she might as well connect the speakers at the same time.

Taylor pulled one speaker out of the box and turned to the shelving behind her.

"They'll just fit," she stated, maneuvering the speaker into a compartment just to the left of the television. She repeated the action with the other speaker on the opposite side, and George put the box down on the couch.

Taylor surveyed the whole set-up with her hands on her hips before kneeling. The television was at chest-height, and she bent at the waist to crawl a few inches on hands and knees into the compartment below the television.

In the dim light that peeked through the other compartments, Taylor could see all the cords dangling down to her eye level, and she twisted to look up at the back of the television visible in the few inches of space between the shelves and the wall. She heard the floor creak softly as someone stepped up behind her.

"Taylor..." George's voice came, hesitantly. "Can I help?"

Taylor hit her head on the shelf above in her hurry to back out and turn around.

"No!" she said, putting up a hand to keep George away from the electronics, the other hand rubbing the tender spot at back of her skull. George looked crestfallen at her reply, and she felt a little guilty. "Look, later I'll teach you more about this stuff, but for now...please just stay the hell away from it. I'm taking no more chances with you today, alright?"

"Okay," said George, still looking a bit put-out.

"Just...sit on the couch for now," Taylor ordered, and George complied. He pulled the near-empty box onto his lap and began looking through the DVDs that had come with the equipment.

Taylor turned back to her work, crawling again waist-deep into the shelving. She gave a little start when she realized Kali had climbed into the compartment when her back was turned. The cat was on her side, batting playfully at the plugs dangling just within reach. Taylor rubbed Kali's stomach and pulled her away from the wiring.

"You be careful too," she warned the cat. Kali seemed as if she understood the command, and moved to sit patiently at Taylor's shoulder with her tail curled around her front paws.

Twisting uncomfortably, Taylor found the cord to one of the speakers and tried to feel for the appropriate connection on the television above with the same hand. It was an awkward position, her weight on her knees and on one hand, craning her neck to see up into the lower rear part of the television. To make the task even more difficult, Kali's patience seemed to have waned, and she began licking Taylor's ear.

Taylor felt the sandpapery feeling of the cat's tongue against her skin and tried to pull out of reach.

"That tickles!" she protested.

Abruptly, Kali disappeared from Taylor's peripheral vision, whisked backward with a startled "_Mrowr!_"

Moments later, Oliver's head and shoulders took the cat's place, crowding Taylor for space and elbow room in the now very cramped compartment.

"Can I help?" asked Oliver, echoing George's earlier request.

"Uh," said Taylor, startled. "No offense or anything," she began, pulling all the wiring out of Oliver's reach, "but you're not Muggle-born. How do I know you won't fry yourself like George?"

"Well," said Oliver, pulling the DVD connector out of Taylor's reluctant grasp and fitting it expertly into the input jack in the television. "My sister's kind of a whiz when it comes to Muggle Studies, and she loves the electronics and technology Muggles come up with instead of magic. She's always bringing home things like this and asking me to help. I've become an expert-by-proxy of all things electronic."

"Well why didn't you speak up back there at breakfast, then, when I was trying to explain things?" asked Taylor, exasperatedly.

"You looked like you were having fun lecturing us," he said, grinning and shrugging as best he could in the space, squeezed in against Taylor's side.

"I wasn't!" she replied, forcefully. If she could have moved, she would have punched him in the shoulder. Oliver just laughed and began connecting the speaker cords.

After a while of cramped quarters and some experimenting with where the wiring went, the two of them had the electronics all sorted out. They spent the next few minutes trying to back haphazardly out of the shelving compartment, getting stuck squeezed together at the shoulders for a moment before finally freeing themselves.

"Let's try everything," said Taylor, sitting back on her heels in front of the television. Oliver stood and turned on all the equipment without incident.

Taylor turned to George.

"Did you find any films that looked interesting?" she asked him. George held up a darkly decorated DVD which Taylor recognized instantly.

"Something called 'Lord of the Rings,' " said George. Oliver walked over to look at the back cover and George continued. "Dad recommended it, said the Muggles loved it and it has to do with magic."

"It's one Muggle's imagining of magic," corrected Taylor.

"Have you seen this?" asked Oliver, gesturing at the DVD.

Taylor had, and she nodded. Her father was a huge Tolkien fan, and together the two of them had seen the film during her summer holidays from Hogwarts. Three times.

"Is it good?" George asked.

Shrugging, Taylor said, "You guys would probably think it's funny. Not very much of it is accurate, magic-wise."

"Excellent," said George, standing and snatching the disc case from Oliver's hands before crossing to the DVD player. Taylor intercepted him and George quailed at her stern look. She took the DVD away, opening the tray on the player and inserting the disc herself.

A moment later, Taylor recognized the film's musical score coming from the speakers as the DVD menu appeared on the television screen.

The image was upside down.

Taylor fell back onto the couch, laughing, as both George and Oliver turned their heads sideways to try and make sense of the DVD menu.

"I guess _that's_ what happens when you mix magic and Muggle technology," gasped Taylor, wiping her eyes, which were watering from laughing so hard. She suddenly sobered, sitting up straight and looking alarmed. "What time is it?


	29. Opportunity

Taylor was more than twenty minutes late when she finally sat down next to Chloe near the back of Lupin's Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts class. She dropped her bag and wheezed out a few labored gasps before catching her breath again. After leaving the guys' flat, nearly falling down the three flights of stairs in her haste, she had sprinted all the way across campus to the first-year dorms to get what she needed for class. She'd stuffed her textbook and a few fresh rolls of parchment into her bag before racing off again, crossing the open compound to reach the right building and hurriedly climb up the stairs to the fourth floor classroom.

Professor Lupin was luckily facing away from the door when Taylor arrived, having just finished a short lecture and turned to write an assignment on the board. Other students were starting to rummage in their bags for parchment and quills, and Taylor followed suit. Next to her, Chloe was frowning, pulling out a roll of parchment and half-full bottle of ink.

"Where've you been?" asked Chloe, concernedly. She leaned close to Taylor to be heard over the sounds of people still unzipping bags and rustling parchment.

"At the team's—flat," gasped Taylor, flustered. She was trying to pull her hair back out of her face and open her bag at the same time and wasn't making much progress at either task. "Trying to tell Oliver about John being gone, but George—"

"Miss Durden," interrupted someone over Taylor's shoulder. She spun in her seat, startled, and turned to see that Professor Lupin had made his way back to where she and Chloe were sitting. "Come see me after class, please," he said, his expression mild and unreadable.

"Yes, Professor," sighed Taylor. Lupin walked back to the front of the classroom and Chloe gave Taylor what seemed to be rather an unsympathetic look.

"You were saying?" Chloe prompted her to continue.

For the next few minutes, Taylor quietly filled her roommate in on the goings-on of that morning. Chloe looked shocked, covering her mouth with one hand when she heard what happened to George.

"My goodness," breathed Chloe. Muggle-born, like Taylor, she understood the severity of the situation. She didn't have too much compassion for George's mistake, however. "It was pretty stupid to be playing around with Muggle technology without any understanding of it," she whispered, frowning. Chloe must have realized she sounded somewhat heartless, and finished with, "But he's alright, you said?"

"He's just fine," Taylor assured her. "Now what are we doing here? Class, I mean," she added, as Chloe looked confused at the abrupt shift in topic.

The day's lesson covered different ways to reveal hidden script or text on parchment. Late, Taylor had missed Professor Lupin's introductory lecture, but Chloe was able to explain the concept fairly well to her roommate. After some questions Taylor asked to clarify a few points, the two of them undertook the partner exercise Lupin had assigned.

Chloe wrote a note to Taylor on fresh parchment, keeping the message hidden behind her hand. Then she used a vanishing spell to apparently remove the ink. Taylor then tried to make Chloe's note reappear, using the techniques Professor Lupin had provided in his lecture. After a confusing moment where only some of the letters returned (which, though scattered, spelled the word "STUPID"), Taylor was successful in revealing the message, "So Taylor, did you pick a DVD?"

Taylor wrote the next note as an answer to Chloe's query, and then dipped her finger in her inkwell and covered the message entirely in black as though finger-painting across the parchment. This proved equally as unsuccessful as the vanishing spell at keeping the note hidden, and they swapped roles again to continue trying different ways of hiding the text and practice and expand on the techniques of revealing it.

They spent the remaining half hour amusing themselves with the silly notes they wrote back and forth. Neither was ever able to wholly stump the other, but occasionally a word or two of the sentence would remain stubbornly hidden and force the one trying to reveal it to guess at the actual message.

At the end of the hour, Professor Lupin called an end to the project, and Chloe and Taylor packed their school bags again. Remembering Lupin's request, Taylor told Chloe to go on without her. Chloe gave a little shrug and a bemused look by way of good luck and support and exited the room.

Making her way to the front desk, Taylor bumped into several classmates hurrying to get out the door. Professor Lupin was just collecting all the various sheets of parchment scattered across desk and ordering it, folding over longer pieces until it would all fit into a shabby old briefcase he pulled from a drawer.

Lupin glanced up as Taylor approached, and to her relief, he smiled.

"Ah, Taylor," said Professor Lupin, the latches on his briefcase clicking quietly shut.

"I'm sorry to be late, Professor," Taylor said quickly. "It won't happen again." Thinking of George, she added, "I hope," but only very quietly.

"I'm sure you had an excellent reason for your tardiness," Lupin said, still smiling. He moved out from behind the desk and began walking toward the door of the now-empty classroom. "Why don't you tell me about it on the way to my office?" he asked.

"Uh," said Taylor, surprised. "Sure." She hurried to catch up, and followed Professor Lupin through the halls of the university building. Taylor ended up telling Lupin nearly all the details of the morning (it was rather a long walk to his office) and was yet again surprised when her professor actually laughed at her story.

"I know George's father," explained Lupin. "He loves anything to do with Muggles, and has evidently passed on his curiosity to his son. Here we are," he said, opening the last door in a hall full of what Taylor presumed to be professors' offices. She looked around to see many students waiting outside open doors, waiting to talk to professors. One haggard looking student was struggling to keep hold of a box which occasionally emitted puffs of smoke and barking noises. Taylor wondered what the box might hold, and then realized Professor Lupin was holding the door open for her and she hurried in.

Taylor took a moment to look around Lupin's office. It was a very ordinary Muggle-type office, much different from the stone walls of Hogwarts she remembered, and the archaic-looking text books and cages of different magical creatures on the shelves looked out of place in such a room. Professor Lupin set his briefcase on his desk and sat, gesturing for Taylor to do the same. She did.

"Am...I in trouble, sir?" asked Taylor, timidly. She couldn't figure out why they'd need to go all the way to his office just for him to tell her off for being late.

"Oh no, no," Lupin assured her. "Though I'd appreciate your being on time from now on, barring another disaster."

"Of course, Professor," said Taylor, relieved.

"I actually asked you here to offer you a part-time internship with the Ministry of Magic," said Lupin, and Taylor blinked.

"Really?" she asked, taken aback.

"Rather, to inform you of the position," Lupin clarified. "There would be others vying for the internship as well. The Ministry is looking to recruit talented young wizards early in their careers, and I recommended you to them."

"Really?" Taylor said again, feeling flustered.

"You were one of my finest students when I taught at Hogwarts," said Lupin, seriously. "In the last three years your skills appear only to have grown. Even this early in the term I can see you have great aptitude and even greater potential."

Taylor was feeling even more flustered now. Lupin had been one of her favorite professors at Hogwarts, despite his single year of teaching there, and such praise from him made her both extremely embarrassed and extremely proud.

When Taylor said nothing, Lupin went on. "This internship would be a wonderful way to improve and expand on your skills," he said, "while at the same time helping the Ministry and the whole of the magical community."

"I—I'd be honored," said Taylor, but even as she said it she could hear John's voice screaming in her head, _No! No! Not more on your plate!_ "But I'm kind of busy as it is," she finished, feeling a painful wrench in her gut. In truth, she would love to get the internship and have the chance to both hone her skills and get a foot in the door for later work in the Ministry. But she continued, "I'm afraid that going back and forth to the Ministry all year, on top of my classes and Quidditch, might be too much." Taylor felt her face screwing up in a sort of anguished wince at passing up such an opportunity. It would look _fantastic_ on a resume...

"I understand," said Lupin, nodding, but not sounding disappointed. In fact, a sly smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Would it make a difference if I told you that you _wouldn't_ be traveling to the Ministry often? You'd be doing most of your work here at Wandslake with a mentor."

"You?" Taylor asked, thinking quickly. If she could stay here to work, it _might_ squeeze into her schedule.

"No, not me," Lupin said, shaking his head. "Another very capable wizard, though. Does any of this change your answer?"

It was so very tempting, but Taylor couldn't say anything. In her head, John's voice was still protesting the addition of another responsibility, but an ambitious and excited voice of her own was starting to drown him out. _You could do it,_ the voice said; _it wouldn't be too much more trouble_. Lupin seemed to sense her uncertainty, as if he could see she was torn at the offer.

"How about this," Lupin offered, leaning forward. He pulled a white envelope from an inside pocket of his jacket and pushed it across the desk toward Taylor. She regarded it curiously. "This is a train ticket to Inverness on Friday afternoon," said Lupin, tapping the envelope with one finger. "There's a small Ministry satellite office there, and I've made you an appointment for an interview. Just go to the interview. You can always change your mind later."

Taylor took the envelope, frowning.

"Why by train, sir?" she asked. "Couldn't I just apparate?"

"Ah, no," Lupin said, sitting back in his chair. "Wandslake is enforcing new rules prohibiting any magical transportation to or from the premises, much like at Hogwarts, if you remember. This is in part because we are trying to pass as much as possible as a normal Muggle school, and it is also as a security measure against...well." He trailed off, looking away, and when he spoke again his voice was low and quiet. "These are dark times."

Taylor didn't say anything, but she opened the envelope and looked down at the train ticket, her insides churning uncomfortably.


	30. Torn

Taylor thanked Lupin as she exited his office, still clutching the envelope and train ticket inside. Stuffing it into her pocket, she left the building and walked across campus to return to the room she and Chloe shared, her thoughts racing. What an opportunity! The more she thought about it, the more it sounded like a good idea... Just as quickly, it was as if she could hear John screaming hysterically at her and she'd start having doubts again.

After a few minutes' walk in the cold, Taylor was back inside, closing the dorm room door behind her and dropping her bag in the middle of the floor. Again she pulled the envelope Lupin gave her from her pocket and stood staring at it for a moment. Familiar kitchen noises (including Chloe's disjointed humming) attracted her attention, and Taylor put the envelope safely in her top desk drawer. She vowed not to think about it until the next day, and walked quickly into her closet.

Chloe was busy in the center of the kitchen, tossing a salad in a bowl large enough to feed twenty. She looked up as Taylor ducked to enter through the small door, and smiled.

"Want some lunch?" Chloe asked. She held up the full salad tongs and waved them enticingly, saying, "It's Caesar..."

"Excellent," said Taylor, reaching out moments later to take the plate of salad Chloe offered. After pulling a fork out of a drawer, Taylor hopped up to sit on the kitchen counter across from Chloe.

Chloe was filling a plate of her own, and she turned to lean against the island in the middle of the room. They ate in silence for a moment, save Taylor's enthusiastic complimenting of Chloe's salad dressing.

"Oh, hey," said Chloe then, her mouth still full of salad. She swallowed quickly. "Sorry. Anyway, what did Lupin say? That seemed like it took a long time just for him to tell you off for being late."

"Yeah," said Taylor. For some reason, she didn't want to tell Chloe about the internship. She cast around for an excuse. "He wanted to talk to me about that last essay on alternative Disillusionment charms."

"Really? I thought yours turned out well," Chloe said, frowning.

"Me too," Taylor agreed, shrugging. "He's letting me rewrite it, though."

She pushed salad around on her plate with her fork, not feeling particularly hungry anymore. Why was she lying to Chloe? _Because she'd tell you not to do it,_ a voice piped up in her head.

"Oh shoot," Chloe was saying, looking worriedly at her watch, "I gotta run." She wolfed down her last few bites of salad and put her plate in the sink. It was a testament to her hurry that she didn't even rinse the plate (normally Chloe would give Taylor hell for leaving dishes lying around). "I'm meeting a friend for some last-minute cramming before an exam," she continued, hurrying out to the room proper. Taylor carried her plate across the kitchen and stooped low in the closet doorway, watching Chloe put books and parchment into her bag. "I told him I'd meet him five minutes ago."

Taylor paused, quirking one eyebrow and smiling wryly.

"A _boy_ friend, is it?" she teased. Chloe looked up and gave Taylor a withering look.

"Just a friend," Chloe assured her. She stuffed a book in with unnecessary force, grimacing. "There are no love interests on the horizon for Chloe."

"Sorry to hear it," said Taylor.

"How about you, then?" Chloe asked, now grinning. "How go boy things?"

"You mean with Oliver?"

Chloe's smile faltered for a moment.

"Uh, yeah. With Oliver," she recovered.

"Not much to tell." Taylor shrugged again.

"Too bad. But I'd better go," said Chloe, pulling the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "See you tonight."

She left.

Taylor looked around the kitchen and spotted the beanbag still slumped in the corner. She fell into it with a sigh and finished her salad glumly. Despite her best efforts, the internship was weighing heavily on her mind. And now she'd lied to Chloe about it.

Standing, Taylor carried her plate to the sink and, in an unprecedented show of good housekeeping, cleaned and put away both her plate _and_ Chloe's. She sighed again and walked out, gathering what she needed for her afternoon class, Magical Composition.

She managed to stay at least mostly focused throughout the lesson, taking notes automatically but not really paying attention. When it came time for her to construct her own invisibility spell, Taylor accidentally vanished half the classroom and was given extra homework by the professor.

Taylor grumblingly walked to the library after class, annoyed at the extra work but more annoyed knowing it was her own damn fault. She spread out all her homework across the table she and John usually shared and, despite her lack of a study partner, tried to focus. After two hours, all she had to show for the time spent was some very elaborate doodling in the margins of her Transfiguration assignment. Frustrated, she gathered everything up again and hurried to the Quidditch pitch, vowing to put everything to do with the internship out of her mind and focus on practice.

As it turned out, practice was a little more intense than usual, if possible, and it commanded all her attention and sapped most of her energy. Oliver seemed to be putting them all through their paces in preparation for the jamboree that weekend, and was asking for even more from the team than he had previously.

"Come on, Chasers!" he shouted from his perch at the goalposts. "Try to keep up! You're going to be playing one man short this weekend!"

"We do still have four, you know," George pointed out to Oliver, but this only earned him a scowl. It also earned the Beaters another thirty repetitions practicing the Doppelganger Defense, which involved two of them hunting down a Bludger and then both hitting it at the same time. This added a lot of extra wallop, but it was tricky to maneuver two Beaters into position, and even trickier to aim properly with both clubs and two different arm-swings thrown into the mix. It didn't help either that Paul and Taylor weren't on the best of terms on the ground, much less in mid-air with heavily weighted clubs and short tempers.

Of the three combinations of Beaters, Taylor and George had the Doppelganger Defense working pretty consistently by the end of practice. Oliver commented that it would probably get some use that weekend, which Taylor thought implied she and George would be in the starting lineup. Paul seemed to think the same thing, because Taylor could practically hear his teeth grinding angrily from halfway across the field.

Finally, Oliver's whistle called the team back down to the ground. Sweating and exhausted, her shoulder sore from so much effort, Taylor landed harder than she meant to and staggered sideways, steadying herself on George's elbow.

"Well done, everyone!" Oliver said, looking much more cheerful than any of the others standing in a loose circle around him. Taylor thought most of the team looked about as tired as she felt. "Good practice. Beaters and Seekers have made great progress on some new maneuvers, and Chasers are getting quite a workout without John."

"Damn straight," wheezed Kyle, leaning on his broom. Many of his teammates laughed, but Oliver just nodded.

"Good job, Chasers," he agreed. Ann and Donna nodded, and Kyle and Richard did a complicated type of handshake and high-five. "Same time tomorrow, everyone," Oliver finished. With deep sighs, the team began separating by gender and wandering off to their respective locker rooms.

Taylor joined Mel, Donna, and Ann in trudging across the pitch. Hurried footsteps behind them caused Taylor to turn, and she saw a flash of red hair before someone threw one arm over her shoulder and the other over Mel's, pulling them tight to his sides. The height difference between the two girls made George hang somewhat awkwardly from Mel's shoulder, but he seemed to take it in stride.

"Hello ladies," he said cordially, looking around to all of them. "Don't forget: the whole team's invited up to the blokes' flat tonight. I set up a way for us to watch Muggle films."

"_You_ set up?" asked Taylor, incredulously. "_I_ set up," she corrected. "After you _screwed _up—"

"This is no time to argue semantics," George interrupted, clasping a hand over Taylor's mouth and wrapping the other arm around her waist so as to haul her off her feet. Taylor let out a surprised cry, muffled by George's hand. She kicked her feet wildly in mid-air and managed to elbow George in the ribs. He dropped her, laughing and letting out a mock _oof!_

"Just hurry up," said George. "We're watching _Land of the Rings_—"

"_**Lord **__of the Rings,_" Taylor corrected him.

"—and it's a long one, so we want to get started early," George continued, not phased in the least by the interruption. "Taylor says it's about what Muggles think magic is. Should be fun, hey?"

"Can I bring Chloe?" Taylor asked. George frowned slightly, and Taylor quickly threw in, "She'll cook!"

This time it was Ann who threw a hand over George's protesting mouth.

"Bring her," demanded the three girls.

.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor was showered, dressed, and halfway back to the guys' flat with Chloe in tow. Chloe was not hard to convince regarding the evening, even once she heard she had been volunteered to cook. In fact, her first instinct was to bring the rest of the Caesar salad she'd made (which she now had in a large plastic container carried under one arm) and use it as a starter. Taylor laughed at this.

"We're not expecting a seven-course meal!" Taylor had protested as Chloe packed a bag of kitchen stuffs she might need. "It's just a bunch of hungry Quidditch players, we're not picky, I promise."

"Just to be safe," Chloe had argued, good-naturedly.

As they entered the team's apartment building, they met Ann, Donna, and Mel coming out of their bottom-floor flat.

"There you are!" said Ann, brightly.

"Chloe—thank goodness, I'm starving," said Mel, throwing herself at Chloe and grabbing her in a fierce bear hug (made somewhat difficult by the large salad Chloe was carrying; Taylor took it off her hands).

"What she meant to say was, 'Chloe! How good to see you!' " Donna assured Chloe, over Mel's shoulder.

"I promise we don't love you only for your delicious meals," Ann said, smiling, as Mel released Chloe.

"There's also the promise of leftovers!" agreed Mel. "Kidding!" she added quickly, as Taylor and Donna both moved to slap her.

"Quick, let's get up there before this salad wilts," said Taylor, hefting the large plastic container.

Chloe grinned, and followed Taylor up the stairs. "Heaven forbid," she said.


	31. Dinner

The girls reached the top of the stairs, Chloe in the lead, and Taylor pointed her to the door to the left of the long hall. Once at the white painted door, Chloe hesitated.

"Should I—should I knock?" she asked, tentatively.

"Oh, go on," said Mel impatiently, reaching around both Taylor and Chloe to turn the door handle. She put both hands on Taylor's back and pushed hard enough to send her and Chloe stumbling forward into the room.

The common area of the flat was empty, Taylor saw, except for George. He was sitting on the couch with a look of mixed concentration and confusion on his face, holding a remote pointed at the television and pressing buttons apparently at random. Mel must have caught sight of this over Taylor's shoulder, because she elbowed her way to the front, making Taylor drop the salad and nearly knocking Chloe over.

"You didn't start without us, did you?" Mel demanded, storming toward where George sat.

George jumped to his feet.

"No!" he said quickly, though he very clearly had. He fumbled more desperately with the remote, now with a look of panic on his face as Mel descended on him. She snatched the remote from his hands, and just as quickly Taylor hurried forward and pulled it from hers.

"Relax, Mel," said Taylor. "We'll start from the beginning once everyone has eaten and is settled in." She found the pause button on the DVD remote and pressed it, glancing at the television for the first time since entering the flat. She did a double-take, and then let out a surprised laugh.

The television set itself was upside down.

"That's the best we could come up with," said a voice, from behind her. Oliver appeared at her shoulder, shrugging and nodding toward the television. "We couldn't get the image inverted, so..."

"Well, I suppose that's one solution," said Taylor, still grinning.

Ann and Donna closed the door of the flat behind them, saying their hellos to Oliver and George. Chloe knelt and retrieved the fallen salad; luckily the plastic container hadn't opened from the impact of the drop.

"I'll just take this to the kitchen, shall I?" asked Chloe.

Oliver turned, and for a moment a look of uncertainty crossed his face. Then he smiled. "It's Chloe, isn't it?" he asked. "Taylor's roommate?"

"That's me," Chloe said with a smile. "Evidently I'm catering this shindig."

"Welcome, then, and thank you," said Oliver. "Though I suppose Charles will be disappointed—"

"But everyone else will be thrilled that Charles isn't cooking," interrupted George, grinning as he took Chloe by the elbow and led her toward the kitchen. Chloe sent a smile and a wave Taylor's way and disappeared around the corner.

Mel followed, saying, "I'm sure Chloe could use the company..." though Taylor rather thought she was hoping for first dibs on food.

Only moments later, Taylor heard footsteps from the short hall in the flat and turned to see Kyle approaching. He was frowning slightly.

"Oliver, why is there some strange woman cooking in our kitchen?" Kyle asked, without so much as a hello to any of the girls. Taylor began to explain, but George had returned from escorting Chloe to the kitchen and took the chance to butt in.

"What are you complaining about?" asked George. "She's cooking, isn't she? That means Charles isn't."

Kyle raised his eyebrows. "Good point."

"She's my roommate, Chloe," explained Taylor. "You met her at the diner, remember?"

"Ah, yes," Kyle said, recognition dawning. Then: "She's cute, _and_ she cooks?"

Already, delicious smells were wafting out of the small kitchen, and the rest of the team seemed drawn from their rooms by the aroma.

"Wow," said Gary, stepping into the common area, taking deep breaths through his nose. "That smells great."

"Think Charles has finally done something right?" asked Richard, behind him.

"Hey!" said Charles, disgruntled, bringing up the rear of the group.

Paul looked back at Charles and frowned. "Then who...?"

The whole team exchanged glances and then moved hurriedly toward the kitchen. Taylor and Oliver got swept up in the group, pressed together from all sides as the team got caught in the bottleneck formed by the narrow hall entrance. Ann and Donna were behind them, laughing.

Chloe looked somewhat alarmed as ten hungry Quidditch players all tried to pile into her kitchen, dancing back as Kyle, in the lead, stumbled and fell in his hurry.

"Careful!" said Chloe, tending a large pot of boiling water and pasta on the stove. Nevertheless, Chloe was clearly in her element. A buzzer went off loudly and she pulled on Charles's burnt oven mitt. "Scoot back, scoot back," she ordered Kyle, opening the oven with one hand and pulling out a tray of what smelled like—

"Garlic bread!" said Richard, excitedly. He, Mel, and George all reached for a slice and Chloe slapped their hands in rapid succession with a spatula that had appeared in her hand as though from thin air.

The three of them snatched their hands back, looking cowed, and the rest of the team laughed. "Just one minute, will you?" asked Chloe, grinning. "Everybody get out of the kitchen—out!" Taylor was buffeted backwards as those in front of her jostled their way into the hall enough that Kyle and George were toeing the line between carpet and tile. "You too, Mel," Chloe said, laughing. Though Mel pouted excessively, she forced the majority of her body into the hall, bracing her arms against the door, securing her position as first in line for food.

"Who _is_ that?" someone asked in awe, from somewhere over Taylor's shoulder.

"My roommate," she said, laughing, unable to turn and see who it was. Taylor realized with a start that she was now sandwiched between George in front and Oliver behind, with the wall near the kitchen doorway boxing her in on one side. She was acutely aware of Oliver's breath warm on her neck, and she could feel the rumble of laughter in his chest as he elbowed Gary on Taylor's right, jockeying for position.

Aside from people's continued pushing, Taylor found herself entirely unable to move. She could only manage to peer over George's shoulder (and under Mel's) to see Chloe hurrying to drain the pasta and arrange all the food and side dishes in a buffet-style line along the kitchen counter.

"Plates?" asked Chloe, over the general noise and complaints of the crowd packed like sardines in the hall outside the kitchen.

"Top cupboard in the corner," said Richard, his arm pointing out from under Mel's. Chloe retrieved them and put them on the end of the counter. Then she stepped away from the door, clapped her hands, and said, "Food's on!"

The team poured itself out of the hall with a resounding cheer. Those in front of Taylor who had moments ago been supporting her weight abruptly disappeared, and she stumbled forward, trying to get her feet under her. Oliver caught her easily around the waist and set her back on her feet as they squeezed through the door.

Inside the kitchen, the buffet line went quickly, and surprisingly calmly after the initial rush. Everyone dished themselves plenty of pasta and sauce, Mel building a veritable mountain of spaghetti, and augmenting the entree with the Caesar salad and garlic bread.

With twelve people, it was a tight fit in the kitchen, and there was certainly not enough room for all of them to sit at the table. As their broad shoulders and bulky frames together easily took up the space of five people, Charles, Kyle, and George each ended up sitting on the floor with a plate in one hand and a fork in the other.

It only took a few bites for people to be heartily complimenting Chloe on her cooking skills. There was one proposal of marriage (from George), and several people who offered Taylor to trade Charles for Chloe.

"Hey!" Charles had said, from the floor, managing to look both hurt and threatening.

Oliver, who was sitting at the end of the table next to Taylor, reached down to pat Charles on the head. "Don't worry," he said. "I'd never trade you."

"And Taylor'd never have you," agreed George. Kyle nearly disappeared as Charles half-flung himself across his teammate to get to George, who was laughing so hard he choked on a bite of garlic bread. Paul reached down and thumped George hard on the back.

The team moved quickly through their meals, but none so fast as Mel. She had been first in line, and had sat down nearest the door (so she could leap up and lay claim to the best seat on the couch). Plus, Taylor reasoned, she had the metabolism of a hyperactive ferret, so she wolfed down her meal in what seemed like mere moments and sprang from the table excitedly. Chloe compulsively reached out to grab the empty plate and put it in the sink.

"Come on!" cried Mel, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Hurry up, you lot, I want to watch the film!" She playfully kicked Charles in the shoulder, and though his mass was considerably more than hers, it knocked him slowly sideways. Kyle and George fell too, in a sluggish domino effect. All three of them made alarmed noises and held their plates up above their heads, putting the safety of their meals above that of their own as they sprawled in a tangle across the floor.

Mel just leapt over them into the hall.

"Girls get the sofa!" she called.

By now, the rest of the team was finishing up, everyone seemingly in a hurry to get to the evening's main attraction. People started making their way down the hall, thanking Chloe again for dinner as they passed where she was rounding up dirty plates by the armful, already starting to scrub them clean.

"Come on, Chloe, leave it," said Taylor, gesturing for her to come along.

"I'll just finish up here," Chloe replied, long sleeves rolled up to the elbow as she plunged her hands into the soapy dishwater.

"No way," said George.

"You cooked!" agreed Gary.

"We'll clean up," said George, as he and Gary grabbed Chloe under the arms and hoisted her up off her feet, actually carrying her out of the kitchen. "Y'know, later."

Chloe looked somewhat pained at leaving that much flatware sitting unwashed in the sink, but allowed herself to be pulled down the hall, smiling and shrugging back at Taylor, who followed, grinning.


	32. Film

Taylor followed the reluctant Chloe out to the common area, and found some kind of scuffle going on. Mel seemed to be in a fight over sofa rights, and though she was trying to take up as much room as possible, draped length-wise across the furniture, Kyle and Richard appeared to be making good progress at dragging her off.

"Where are we supposed to sit, then?" asked Richard, frustrated, as Mel had started kicking.

Taylor had an idea.

She pulled out her wand and used the same charm she had seen John once use and drew four huge beanbags from the air, which dropped onto the floor. Well, three onto the floor and one onto Richard, who had fallen when Mel landed a particularly good kick in his ribs. Taylor pulled the beanbag off him, and pushed the four makeshift chairs into place, two in front of the couch and one on either side.

"There," said Taylor. "That should be enough to seat everybody, right?" At once, all the guys dropped into the nearest beanbag, leaving the sofa up for grabs. Mel sat upright and made room for the rest of the girls, waving them in excitedly.

"I don't know," Donna said, dubiously. "I don't know if we can all fit on there with my fat ass hogging one end..." Ann hit her on the shoulder.

"Oh, shut up, you do not have a fat ass." said Ann. "Sit already."

Taylor was beginning to agree with Donna; not about her ass, of course, but about the fit. With Chloe, the girls numbered five, and that seemed like a stretch even for this sofa.

"Oh bloody hell," said Donna. She had sat down, and her larger build was slowly sinking into the cushions, much farther than she ought to have. She gripped the arm of the sofa, a note of alarm in her voice. "What is this, a sinkhole?"

"Sorry, forgot to warn you," said Richard, laughing. Donna tried feebly to kick him where he sat, but the sofa was still swallowing her. Finally, her descent seemed to slow.

"Well, I don't think I'm going anywhere," she said. "Luckily it's comfortable. Give it a go, Ann." Ann sat, and Mel followed. Chloe pushed her way in on the other end, leaving, it seemed to Taylor, very little room at all.

George had the remote in hand, and seemed to be ready to start the film when he leapt to his feet. "Wait, we need popcorn!" He ran to the box the DVD player had arrived in, still sitting on the floor near the television. Pulling out a handful of small rectangular packets, he held them up, grinning. "Muggle popcorn!"

"Muggles have different popcorn?" asked Gary, bemused.

"They make it differently," George explained. "In that hotbox thing in the kitchen."

"The oven?"

"The microwave," Taylor cut in. She stepped over Oliver, sitting alone in the beanbag to the right of the couch, and put her hands out to George. "I'll do it," she said. "You all start the film, I've already seen it. I don't mind as long as I'm back in time to see the expression on your faces when you see the elves. That should be hilarious." Taylor was remembering her interactions with house elves, and grinned to herself. The group at large gave her funny looks, but Chloe laughed. "Be back in a minute with hot, delicious, buttery popcorn," Taylor promised, turning.

"Hit the lights on your way!" called Charles. Taylor obliged, and the flat was left in near-darkness, lit only by the dim glow of the television.

Taylor hummed the Lord of the Rings theme to herself as she waited for the popcorn to finish, cooking two bags simultaneously to cut down on time. She emptied the steaming hot bags into a couple of large bowls, and balanced one in each hand as she carefully made her way down the darkened hall to rejoin the group.

They were laughing so hard Taylor thought Kyle might pass out from lack of oxygen.

In the few minutes she'd been gone, George had managed to accidentally turn on the French subtitles, and the audio track coming out of the speakers was unmistakably Chinese. Now Chloe and George were having a tug-of-war over the remote.

"Look, I'm Muggle-born!" Chloe was saying, trying to get leverage by planting her foot squarely on George's sternum. "I know how this works!"

"I can fix it," George was saying. "I can fix it! One more try—"

"Oh give me that," said Taylor, laughing, putting a bowl of popcorn each into Donna and Kyle's hands. She sat on the right arm of the sofa and yanked the remote from the middle of its tug-of-war. In moments, she had the film cued up to the beginning, with the appropriate language and no subtitles. She tried to get comfortable on the arm of the sofa (as there really wasn't room for her elsewhere), and directed, "Now everybody just shut up and watch this."

It was not to be, however, because people were much more interested in talking about the film than watching it, shouting at the characters on screen, and alternately cheering and booing while throwing popcorn. Taylor resigned herself to it, and tried to get into the spirit of the evening.

"That can't be comfortable," said a voice, from somewhere below and to the right of where Taylor sat. She looked down, and Oliver was still sitting there, alone, on the beanbag. She smiled, but before she could say anything, Oliver had reached up and put two fingers through the side belt loop of her jeans. He gave a tug and she found herself sliding off the worn leather of the sofa's arm.

"Whoa," Taylor said, flailing slightly as she lost her balance and dropped into the beanbag below. Oliver's left arm shot out to steady her, and then remained resting there behind her back once she had righted herself slightly in the shifting confines of the beanbag. Taylor realized there was nowhere to put her right arm but around Oliver's shoulders. She did.

She noticed that his fingers were still hooked through her belt loop. He must have noticed also, because he let go very suddenly.

"More comfortable?" he asked.

"Much," she agreed, feeling her cheeks burning.

"So, tell me about this film," said Oliver, leaning close to be heard over the noise of the rest of the team. "You said you've seen it?"

"Three times," Taylor replied, nodding. "Wouldn't you just rather watch it than hear about it?"

"But you're much more interesting," said Oliver, grinning.

Taylor was blushing more furiously now and hoping it was impossible to see in the dark. This was much more forward—or at least more bold—than they'd managed to be in the past. Maybe it was something about the relative privacy of a shared beanbag in the dark.

She realized he was waiting for a response.

"Uh, yes," she said, clearing her throat slightly. "My dad is a big fan of Tolkien's—he's the Muggle who wrote the book this film is based on," she explained.

"He likes Muggle books about magic?" Oliver asked, leaning back comfortably against Taylor's arm.

"He did until he found out I could do actual magic," said Taylor. Oliver frowned, looking worried.

"Did your family have a problem finding out you were a witch?" he asked. "One of my best mates from Hogwarts had a big row with his family over it and now they don't even speak—"

"No, no, nothing like that," Taylor assured him. "I just mean that now he reads _real_ magic books. He's just a big kid at heart; I think he wishes he were magic, too."

Oliver looked at her as though asking her to go on, and they talked about their families for a while. Oliver talked about growing up in a centuries-old wizarding family, a situation which had both benefits and detriments.

While they spoke, Oliver's arm tightened around her back, pulling her closer to talk over the rising sounds of the rest of the team.

After a time, he mentioned his little sister, who Taylor thought she remembered him talking about as the whiz-kid with Muggle technology. She asked as much, and he laughed.

"She's a whiz-kid with everything," he said. "Always outdid me in anything, too, and never let me forget it. She's a real brat that way." Here he looked a little wistful, and Taylor grinned, seeing the seemingly-gruff-but-actually-adoring-and-protective-older-brother look she recognized from some of her old friends. "But she's my only brat," continued Oliver, "so I guess—"

"Taylor, give me a hand with more popcorn?"

Taylor looked up. It was George, standing in front of their beanbag and blocking their view of the film, had they been bothering to watch.

"Are we out already?" Taylor asked, confused. How long had they been talking?

George gave a curt nod.

"Can't you do it?" she asked, turning far enough from Oliver so that he couldn't see the very pointed look she was giving George.

"No," he said, holding a hand out expectantly.

Taylor sighed and looked back to Oliver.

"I'll be right back," she said, allowing George to pull her to her feet.

George led her to the kitchen, where the sounds of the film and its spectators were considerably muted, only really audible during a particularly loud bout of laughter. Taylor crossed her arms impatiently.

"You need my help with microwave popcorn?" she asked, skeptically.

"Oh please, I can handle the popcorn," said George, tossing a compact bag of corn kernels into the microwave and pressing the 'START' button.

Taylor pressed the 'STOP' button, pulled out the bag, removed the plastic covering, and put the popcorn back in the microwave. She shoved the plastic into George's chest, where static electricity made it hang limply from his jumper.

"Huh," said George, looking down at the plastic.

"What is this _really_ about?" asked Taylor. She was frustrated. Moments ago she was half in Oliver's arms, and now she was in the kitchen with a technophile who seemed ever more likely to burn down the building.

"Taylor," said George, now in a calm and soothing voice. He reached out for her hands and held them in his own. "We're friends, aren't we?"

"Of course," said Taylor, frowning. This didn't sound like it could go anywhere good.

"Then," continued George, "as your friend, I can do this."

He slapped her hard upside the head, and hissed, "What is wrong with you?"

"I could ask you the same question!" said Taylor accusingly, rubbing the sore side of her head.

"In case you missed it," George said, "John—my roommate, your study partner, our mutual friend and teammate—is wholly and completely smitten with you."

"He's—what?" gaped Taylor. She thought for a moment the blow to her head was confusing her. "No he isn't! Wait, is he?"

"Ugh," said George, rubbing his forehead. "Sometimes you are incredibly thick. You've just been too busy making eyes at Oliver to notice."

Taylor felt the color rising in her cheeks. "I'm not making eyes at anybody," she said defensively, though she knew she was lying. "Besides, they're my eyes to make as I please!"

George gave her a strange look.

"That came out oddly," admitted Taylor. "But you know what I meant."

"That's as may be," said George, "but look at it this way." He gripped Taylor's shoulders and spoke more quietly. "John's in America because his family is in trouble, and you're back here putting the moves on Oliver."

"Hey, there is mutual move-putting!" said Taylor, but she felt the first piercing pangs of guilt. After a moment, she said, lamely, "I didn't know."

"I gathered," said George. "That's why I told you."

He gave Taylor a quick hug.

"Oliver, on the other hand," George continued, "_did_ know, and that seems to me somewhat morally reprehensible. So I'm going to have a conversation with him, too."

The two of them started moving back to the common area.

"Probably I won't hit him, though," George added, "as he could take me in a fight."

"Hey," protested Taylor. "I could take you in a fight!"

"Of course you could," cooed George, pinching her cheeks and speaking as though he would to a small child. He only laughed when she slapped his hands away.

Taylor sat down again in her vacated hollow of beanbag and Oliver smiled at her. He leaned over to say something, but George stood over them, clearing his throat.

"Oliver, give me a hand with more popcorn?" asked George, in exactly the same voice he'd used a few minutes ago. Oliver wore a look as though he'd missed part of a joke, and glanced at Taylor. She just raised her eyebrows, trying to keep her face otherwise expressionless.

When Oliver stood and walked away, the beanbag shifted and Taylor settled into the middle, waiting. She tried to pay attention to the film and the rest of the team around her, all still laughing and throwing popcorn at the screen and at each other, but after a moment she began straining to hear the conversation taking place in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Oliver returned, gingerly rubbing the side of his head.

"So he hit you too, huh?" asked Taylor, wryly. She moved over on the beanbag to make room for him, and for an agonizingly long moment they sat, without touching, without saying anything, letting the sounds of the rest of the team wash over them. Things were back to being terribly awkward between them, and only a few minutes ago they'd been speaking as if they knew each other for years. Taylor stifled a disappointed sigh.

Then Oliver spoke.

"George has a point about John, I suppose," he said. "And he's not wrong, I am very, uh," he gave an embarrassed little cough. "Interested in you." These words sounded hurried and Taylor guessed he was probably blushing about as much as she was by now. "But I want to get to know you better whether or not it goes any further than that. You're one of the best Beaters I've ever seen, you're tougher than most blokes I know, and besides," he said, grinning now, "my cat likes you. So, I'm just saying I can keep things completely platonic until it's a more appropriate time to pursue anything else."

With the way he was looking at Taylor, she wasn't sure if she could do the same.

"That's assuming you're, ah..." he trailed off, looking uncertain.

"I am," said Taylor quickly, finally speaking.

"Oh good," he said, smiling broadly again. "Because, quite frankly, if George weren't glaring at me quite so fiercely, I'd probably try to kiss you right now."

Taylor turned around to face George, who was indeed glaring forcibly at one or the both of them.

"Yes, well," said Taylor, still pleased beyond measure at these last words of his. "Perhaps I should sit somewhere else." She started to stand, but Oliver pulled her back down with an arm around her waist.

"No, no, this is completely platonic," he assured her, though his half-grin might have said otherwise. "Tell me more about growing up a Muggle."


	33. Thursday

Taylor woke late the next morning, and though she noted the hour on the clock, she didn't bother moving. She mustered enough energy to turn her head, and saw Chloe still buried under her comforter, one bare foot sticking out and dangling inches from the floor.

It had been a late night for the both of them. After finishing the film (and going back to re-watch a few of everyone's favorite scenes, which involved more fighting over the remote), the team hadn't abandoned their comfortable positions and instead began talking amongst themselves. Chloe stayed also, despite her protestations that she wasn't a part of the team and besides had homework to tend to. There were many vocal detractors—especially among those fondest of her cooking—and finally Chloe complied, leaning back into the sofa looking both pleased and embarrassed.

Over the course of the evening, Taylor learned a great deal more about all her teammates and was glad for the chance to spend time with them. Living all the way across campus when the rest of the team was grouped together in one building, she had already begun feeling like an outsider on her own team. Before that night she was getting to know the girls, George, and John—and now Oliver—fairly well on her own, but she could hardly even remember the names of some of the rest. Talking to each person one-on-one in a huge round-robin of conversations did much to help alleviate her fears.

Even Paul, who'd previously been so confrontational and unpleasant to Taylor, behaved slightly less like an ass than usual, consenting to a brief but civil conversation with her. She didn't learn much more than his major, but at least they didn't end up coming to blows. It turned out he was interested in becoming a herbology professor at his old school. With his seemingly omnipresent sour expression, Taylor rather thought he should be a potions master, as his demeanor reminded her forcibly of her old professor, Snape.

The group only disbanded, in the very wee hours of the morning, once Gary's snores began drowning out everyone else's conversations. Taylor and Chloe had staggered back to their room and collapsed into bed, and now—an incredibly short time later, Taylor thought—it was already time to go to class.

Despite her exhaustion, Taylor's Ravenclaw prefect instincts demanded that she get up and be in class on time. She was relieved to hear Chloe give a grunt across the room and roll over onto her back.

"Oh good," said Taylor, her voice slightly hoarse. "You're awake."

"Am not," Chloe muttered, stubbornly.

"Ha!" Taylor pushed herself up into a sitting position and threw off the covers. "Get up, it's defense this morning and Professor Lupin knows were roommates, so I can't show up without you."

Chloe finally got up (after Taylor was forced to temporarily vanish her warm comforter to get her moving) and the two of them scrambled to make it to their defense against the dark arts class. They remained surprisingly awake and coherent for the first part of the class, and Taylor even managed to come up with some kind of answer to a question relating to the previous night's reading (which of course neither of them had finished). After the halfway mark, however, Chloe's eyelids began fluttering and Taylor was struck by an unending onslaught of yawns. They elbowed each other in the ribs and kicked each other under their shared table to keep from falling asleep, but Taylor was sure she heard Chloe snore once, even with her eyes partially open. At the end of the hour they staggered out of the classroom and went their separate ways, each mumbling words of encouragement and support to the other for surviving the rest of the morning.

Still, without Chloe to keep her awake, Taylor found the long-winded and painfully fact-filled lecture from her astronomy professor almost unbearable. Doubly unfortunately, she was one of only four students who actually appeared in the classroom on a regular basis, so nodding off in the back unnoticed was completely out of the question. By the time she arrived at her dueling class she was more tired than she thought ought to be physically possible.

Professor Lupin, out of some act of cruelty (probably he thought Chloe's snoring in class that morning had been hers), paired her with her most fierce opponent: the sandy-haired American boy she'd squared off with over Quidditch. He'd seemed to think she'd beaten him out for the team, though seeing as how they played different positions she couldn't really understand his logic. Faulty reasoning or not, he still managed to despise her, and their occasional practice duels had escalated into more serious confrontations—as serious as one could get, using relatively harmless curses. Taylor usually enjoyed the challenge; they were fairly well matched, on a good day.

This was not a good day. Fatigue made her reflexes sluggish, and her response time was abysmal. Taylor lost the duel nine times out of ten, and the only time the outcome was in her favor was because she was so frustrated she opened the duel with an unspoken hex and took him off-guard. It wasn't technically cheating, she told herself. They'd already bowed, so it was fair game, really. Plus he was being particularly obnoxious, and the sight of his mouth fusing shut had done much to cheer her up.

It wasn't until the end of class that she realized how horrible she must appear to Professor Lupin. Yesterday, he had offered her an internship he recommended her for based on academic excellence, and today she looked as though she had all the magical talent of a house elf who'd had too many butterbeers. Why did she have to have two classes with him today, why?

Taylor met Chloe in the hall on the way back to their room for lunch, and they exchanged a look that clearly said they'd both had the same morning. Chloe toed off her shoes without untying them and crawled, fully clothed, back into bed.

"What about lunch?" asked Taylor.

"We're skipping lunch," Chloe said, already yawning.

Taylor stood for a moment by the door, looking wistfully at her inviting pillow.

"Yeah, okay," said Taylor, slipping under her comforter.

Almost three hours later, Taylor propped herself up on her elbows and groaned as she came face to face with the clock. "We slept through history!"

Chloe made a similar groaning noise, but didn't move.

"Ugh. I wish I had a time-turner," she mumbled into her pillow.

"So we could go back and make it to class?"

"Forget that," said Chloe, with a muffled laugh. "To go back and sleep even more. I think I'll just do that last bit now, regardless."

"Yeah, well, I have to go to practice before too long," said Taylor, sitting up and rubbing her face. "If I go back to sleep now I'd probably be late, and Oliver's already too highly strung over this weekend's jamboree. He might actually hex me."

Taylor's stomach chose this moment to grumble loudly. She wrapped one arm around her middle, saying, "Oog..."

"Okay, okay, I'll make you lunch. And some really strong coffee," said Chloe. "But then I'm going back to bed, and by god, if you accidentally wake me..." She let the threat hang there, unfinished, but Taylor wasn't worried; she didn't have time for much other than a late lunch and coffee before practice anyway.

Chloe managed to sit up and shove her feet into a pair of tatty old bunny slippers before padding her way to the kitchen. Before Taylor could even change into fresh clothes, she caught the scent of one of her favorite dishes; a lentil stew Chloe made from scratch. Taylor still had no idea how Chloe could accomplish so much in a kitchen in so very little time, but she was certainly happy to reap the benefits without understanding all the details.

True to her word, Chloe handed Taylor a cup of coffee as she stepped out of the kitchen and collapsed back onto her bed with a gratified sort of groan. She didn't even take off the bunny slippers.

Taylor stood leaning against the counter and made her way through a good-sized bowl of the stew. It was wonderful and warm and filling, and Taylor sighed happily. As thanks for the meal, she cleaned and put away her dishes before tiptoeing out of the kitchen and out of their room without disturbing Chloe.

Taking her time walking across the campus to the Quidditch pitch, Taylor wondered absently if her lingering exhaustion would end up making practice as hellish for her as dueling class had been. As she neared the pitch, though, she had her answer. Just being there gave her a little thrill, and she knew that once she was on her broomstick and soaring up in the sky, the adrenaline rush would keep her energized and exhilarated.

It was early yet for practice, but Taylor decided to change into practice robes and gear and fly a few laps on her own just to warm up. She waved down at her teammates as each arrived on the pitch, and those who noticed smiled and waved back. Soon they joined her in the air, and after cursory greetings, Oliver had them all caught up in training even more rigorous than the previous day's. Oliver's goal appeared to be to test their stamina, because practice ran nearly an hour long, and he was so fervent in his commands that no one dared to argue.

When they finally touched down on the grass of the pitch again, Taylor knew from the satisfying ache in her muscles that she would sleep well that night despite all her napping throughout the day.

"Alright!" Oliver was saying. He looked as though he was about to give a good long speech. "Good practice, as ever. I think we'll do well at the jamboree this weekend. I hope everyone has cleared their absence tomorrow with all their professors as I asked—"

"What absence?" asked Richard, interrupting.

"What do you mean, 'you asked'?" George said at the same time.

Oliver looked around at them all and his look of confusion was mirrored on his teammates' faces.

"Tomorrow, we leave for the jamboree," said Oliver, as though this explained everything.

"Yeah, we apparate to London in the evening, like always, right?" asked Paul. "Why would we miss class?"

"No, no," said Oliver, shaking his head. "We're not apparating; we have to go by Muggle transport. Part of Wandslake's new rules for security reasons."

"You're just telling us this _now?_" said Donna, hands on hips in a rather threatening manner.

"I didn't tell you before?" Oliver asked.

"No!" the team shouted at once.

"Well," said Oliver, gruffly. "Sorry."

"How are we supposed to arrange all this now?" Mel asked, exasperated. Taylor couldn't help agreeing. She realized with a start that this meant she wouldn't have the chance to go to that ministry interview at all.

"I don't know—I said I'm sorry!" Oliver sounded more defensive than anything else. "I only know it's going to take all day to get to London by Muggle transport, starting with a bus ride from here to Inverness in the morning, train from Inverness to Edinburgh, and aeroplane from there to London."

Taylor frowned at this.

"It shouldn't take all day," she began, but George interrupted her thought.

"Why can't we take the school train back to Platform 9 ¾?" he demanded.

"Only Muggle transportation," said Oliver, crossing his arms.

"Muggles take trains!" protested Kyle.

"Not ones that go non-stop from northern Scotland to London," Charles said wryly.

"Good point," Kyle said, looking mollified.

"But there _is_ a train from here to Inverness," said Taylor, remembering her now-useless train ticket to her Ministry interview. "I was supposed to take it tomorrow afternoon."

Oliver looked at her curiously. Then he shook his head again.

"Wandslake set this up; we do it as the school says. Planes, trains, _and_ automobiles."

Taylor snickered despite her current state of annoyance, but no one seemed to notice, and no one else would recognize the reference anyway.

"We get on a bus tomorrow morning at 8:00," Oliver continued. There were groans and protests at being forced to appear at such an early hour, but Oliver just raised his voice to speak over them. "Be here on the pitch by 7:30, or else. Bus moves out at eight-sharp, so don't get left behind."

Oliver dismissed the team, which broke apart into muttering pairs or threes. Taylor immediately decided the best course of action would be to contact Professor Lupin as soon as possible about the sudden change in plans. Not knowing if she could still catch him in his office at this hour, Taylor bypassed the showers entirely (pushing her broom into Mel's hands with a hurried thanks for putting it away) and sprinted across campus.

Taylor raced up the stairs to Professor Lupin's office, lungs burning after a demanding three-hour practice, only to find the door locked. He did not answer her knock and she swore loudly. She didn't know how to contact him outside of school, and the owl post office was already closed. Stamping her foot uselessly in frustration, Taylor tried desperately to think of a solution; if she couldn't warn him that she couldn't get to the interview, she might not have the chance to reschedule to a later date and would miss out on the opportunity entirely.

She briefly entertained the idea of going downstairs to the post office and sticking her arm through the bars of the closed window, trying to tempt one of the school's owls with a handful of owl pellets. It seemed like a good way to lose a finger.

Instead, she looked around for a way to leave Professor Lupin a message. On another professor's office door nearby, there was a roster of some kind with a quill attached to a bit of string by Spellotape. With a furtive glance to her surroundings, just to check that no one was watching, Taylor pulled the quill free and looked for a bit of parchment to write a note on. She pulled down a flyer advertising a guest lecturer arriving next week, and used the blank back side to write a hurried explanation.

_Professor Lupin,_

_I won't be able to go to the interview tomorrow afternoon; I'm traveling all day to get to the Quidditch Jamboree this weekend. (This means I'll be missing dueling class tomorrow as well, so I will have to make up any missed work as soon as I get back.)_

_I'm sorry for the last-minute notice, but the captain only just told us today. Is there any way to delay or reschedule the interview? I'm so sorry for the trouble, but any help here would be much appreciated._

_Many thanks, Professor,_

_Taylor Durden._

Taylor re-read the note (it was longer than she expected and she'd had to cram the closing lines in very tightly at the bottom). It was the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment, so it would have to do. She slipped the parchment under Professor Lupin's office door and reattached the borrowed quill to the dangling bit of string.

Realizing with a groan that she needed to warn the professors for the other three classes she would be missing the next day, Taylor hurried back to her room to get her own quill and parchment so as to write and distribute similar notes before all the buildings were locked up for the night.


	34. History

Taylor trudged down to the Quidditch pitch very early the next morning with a hastily packed bag slung over her shoulder. Really it was mostly empty, as her broom and Quidditch robes and Beaters' equipment was all in her locker at the stadium. All she'd thrown together in a rush the night before were toiletries, spare clothes for the return trip, and a book to keep her occupied while traveling.

She collected the rest of her Quidditch gear from the girls' locker room and crammed it all into her bag, save for her Firebolt. Wondering idly where she was supposed to put the broom, Taylor carried it with her and walked out of the tunnels leading to the locker room. She met the other three girls on their way in, all of whom looked groggy and only half-awake.

"Mornin'," grunted Donna, by way of greeting. Mel and Ann only nodded vaguely in Taylor's direction before turning the corner.

When Taylor reached the pitch again, there were a few of the guys gathered together near the spectator stands while others were still making their way from the locker room on the other end of the field. Oliver stood with his back to Taylor, a bag slung across his shoulders and a sleek, professional-looking black briefcase in one hand. As she got nearer the group, she recognized Charles and Paul and Richard, and waved. Charles waved back and Oliver turned.

"Good morning!" Oliver said. Behind his back, Richard rolled his eyes, and Taylor tried to suppress a sleepy grin—she had to agree; Oliver was far too cheerful than should be allowed at this hour of the morning.

George, Kyle, and Gary all joined the group at that point, making the complete set of blokes on the team.

"Wish we could just ah...ah...aaaaaaaaaapparate," George managed, his eyes watering from the long-drawn-out yawn. He wandered over to Taylor's side and leaned tiredly on her shoulder. George's yawn traveled around the circle and Taylor found herself stricken as well.

"Wow, that's catching," she said, fighting off another yawn.

Ann and Donna trudged into view at that point, making their way slowly across the pitch. Mel appeared and hurried to catch up, reaching the group at the same time.

"Thanks all for being so punctual this morning," Oliver said. Taylor was too tired to be sure if he was being sarcastic or not. "Now pay attention; because we're taking Muggle transportation, we can't be traveling with anything Muggles would find odd or suspicious," he continued.

"What, like eleven brooms?" Charles said, wryly.

"Exactly like," agreed Oliver. He set the briefcase he had down on the ground and opened it. It was evidently magically augmented and about as deep as a well; Taylor couldn't see the bottom from where she was standing, and others were leaning forward to peer down into it. "We're putting all our Quidditch gear in here," Oliver explained. "You can hang onto your robes, but brooms, clubs, and shin and arm guards all go in there."

No one but Oliver made any moves toward putting anything in the briefcase, and Taylor looked around to see everyone on the team protectively gripping their broom handles and grimacing. Everyone was clearly reluctant to part with their racing brooms. When Oliver stood again, having put his own gear into the depths of the briefcase, he gave them all an exasperated look.

"Oh come on," he said. "Just do it, will you? We're on a tight schedule here."

Charles stepped forward first, gently and carefully lowering his broom into the briefcase before dropping the rest of his equipment in after it. One by one, the rest of the team followed suit, and Taylor was the last, trying to wedge her Firebolt in the corner next to George's Cleansweep Eight. With all eleven players' equipment, it was a tight squeeze, but they managed it. Taylor wondered what they would do once John was back.

Oliver knelt and closed the briefcase again, locking it with a miniature skeleton key when Taylor stepped back. One thought kept nagging at Taylor, though, and she spoke up.

"Oliver," she said, frowning and biting her lip. "They're probably going to open that at the airport."

"Nothing to fret over," Oliver assured her. "Look." He opened the case again, without the use of the skeleton key. Inside were the typical innards of such a briefcase: file folders and loose documents, a few pens, and an extremely bulky first-generation cellular phone.

"Cool," said Gary, impressed.

"Right," Oliver said, dismissively. Then he spoke more loudly and directly, ordering, "Now, everything else. We have to leave behind anything that couldn't be understood or explained by Muggles. No Zonko's or Honeydukes' products, no photos or other moving pictures, no parchment or quills—"

"What? But I've got a potions essay due Monday," complained Paul, reluctantly pulling a roll of parchment from his bag.

"Too bad," said Oliver.

Then Ann voiced a concern Taylor was already feeling.

"What about our wands?" she asked. "You can't expect us to leave them behind or even just put them in some special briefcase."

"Well, no," Oliver allowed, yanking a bag of chocolate frogs out of a crestfallen Richard's hands. "Everyone is to keep their wands on them at all times. It's the only exception to the rule—George, I saw those Exploding Snap cards!" he snapped abruptly.

Clearly displeased, George pulled a deck of cards out of his pocket and handed them over to Oliver.

"In any case, no one is to use _any_ magic, unless to defend themselves or others from actual harm," Oliver continued. "I don't have to tell you about the Statute for Secrecy, and for this trip consider it doubly important. Got it?"

"Got it," chorused the team.

After ten more minutes of arguing over the details ("Muggles have jelly beans!"), Oliver held an armload of taboo objects and wandered off to the locker room to leave them behind. Several people on the team made faces and rude gestures at his retreating back for having their snacks and entertainment rounded up and taken away.

When Oliver returned, he picked up his bag and the briefcase and led the team behind the stadium bleachers, where there was a path through the dense thicket of trees separating the Quidditch pitch from the parking lot of the diner where the whole team had first really met one another.

Taylor, Ann, and Donna all gave Mel dirty looks; they'd had to blast their way through the trees that night, based on Mel's vague sense of direction. Mel just shrugged, smiling somewhat guiltily.

Behind Kyle, her view blocked by his broad shoulders, Taylor couldn't see anything but dark underbrush until she stumbled out onto the pavement. There was a huge charter bus sitting in the parking lot, the engine idling and exhaust fumes visible in the cold morning air.

"Load up," ordered Oliver, cupping his hands around his mouth to shout to the rest of the team still half-stuck in the thicket. Charles reached the bus first, and Taylor helped him open the storage compartments and stow their bags inside. Once everyone had crammed their luggage below the bus, they climbed onboard and settled into their seats. Taylor was one of the last to get on the bus, just in front of Oliver, who—she was glad to notice—had kept the briefcase with him, rather than put it under the bus. She wanted her broom within sight as much as possible.

Once inside the warmth of the bus's passenger carriage, Taylor saw her teammates had spread out. Few people were sitting together, preferring instead to take up two adjacent seats and lay across them, hoping to catch a little extra sleep. Near the front, Mel was already beginning to snore loudly.

Taylor chose a seat at random, sliding over to the window seat and looking to the front to see Oliver bending down to talk to the driver. George suddenly sat down next to her, startling her slightly.

"Hi," she said, looking into George's smiling face. "What's up?"

"I intend to use you as a pillow," he declared. He then proceeded to flop down on his back with his head resting in her lap and his long legs dangling out into the center aisle.

"Uh...right," Taylor said, looking down at George. After a moment, she decided it wasn't really worth arguing about, and tried to make herself comfortable enough to go back to sleep. She closed her eyes and felt the bus rumble beneath her as it pulled out of the parking lot.

After a few minutes of trying to find a comfortable way to lean against the window—which proved difficult, as this involved smooshing her face against the cold glass—Taylor gave up on trying to sleep. She pulled her book from her back pocket, which took some interesting maneuvering to keep George (who had already fallen asleep, she noticed with some resentment) from slipping off her lap. Then, propping her chin up on her hand, her elbow on the arm rest, she turned to her bookmark and picked up where she'd left off on in _Sense and Sensibility_.

"Who's that?"

Taylor gave a start, nearly unseating George as she turned immediately to see who had spoken so unexpectedly.

"Sorry," whispered Oliver, sitting in the seat just behind hers. He was trying to stifle a smile, but failing. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"A likely story," replied Taylor. She tried in vain to beat Oliver around the head with her book, but he simply leaned back, out of her range. "Don't ever do that again!"

"Keep your voice down, you'll wake everyone," chided Oliver, laughing. "You didn't answer my question, though," he continued. He reached through the gap between the two seatbacks separating them and pointed at Taylor's bookmark, a careworn Muggle photo with creased corners. "Who's that?"

Taylor held up the picture for Oliver to see properly, turning to face him as much as she could, resting her forearm on one seatback. She offered the photo to him and he took it, holding it carefully. "Those are my parents," Taylor said, smiling as she looked at the back of the photograph as if she could see right through it. Then she looked up at Oliver.

He was frowning.

"What's wrong?" she asked. Oliver looked as though he felt extremely awkward.

"Well..." said Oliver, slowly, glancing up to meet Taylor's questioning gaze. "...they're black."

Taylor laughed loudly, and a few people scattered around the bus made disgruntled noises. George shifted his head in her lap, but did not wake.

She composed herself again, and answered Oliver, who was now looking very confused.

"I'm _adopted_," Taylor explained, still smiling at Oliver's bafflement. "These are my adopted parents."

"Oh," said Oliver, understanding. Then Taylor watched as his expression abruptly changed to one of amazement.

She felt the smile slide off her face; she knew that look. Everyone always got that look when she told them about her parents, and she didn't want to go through it again.

"Oliver," she began, but he beat her to it.

"Taylor, d'you realize that means you might not actually be Muggle-born?" he said, excitedly. "Your real parents might have been a witch and wizard, you might—"

"No, enough," she interrupted.

Her heart was sinking into the area of her stomach, as it did whenever she was forced to go through this line of thinking. This time, for some reason, the feeling of depression was joined by one of anger. Just for once, she didn't want to have to explain herself.

"First of all," she said, her voice low and with barely contained frustration, "I am _definitely_ Muggle-born. All that term really means is someone that was raised as a Muggle, which I certainly was. Secondly, I don't care if my parents were magical."

"Wait, wait," Oliver interjected, looking completely bewildered. "Why wouldn't you want to know?"

"Because it means they didn't want me!" she snapped. "It means they didn't want me in their lives _so much_ that they put me up for _Muggle adoption!_" She felt hot tears squeeze out of the corners of her eyes and she wiped at them with her free hand.

"I—I didn't mean," Oliver stammered, looking at her, dismayed. Taylor could see both guilt and pity in his eyes and she couldn't stand it.

"Damn it," Taylor said, angry at herself and at the situation. "Just drop it, okay?"

She pulled the picture from Oliver's hand and put it back in her book as she stood up. George slid off her lap and half-fell onto the floor with a cry of surprise as Taylor stepped over him and made her way to the front of the bus. Sitting down violently in the furthermost seat from Oliver, she leaned against the window and was glad for the feeling of cold glass touching where her face burned from angry and unbidden tears.


	35. Instructions

Taylor gave a start as she was shaken awake. Someone was standing at her shoulder.

"Come on, Taylor," said Charles. "We're at the train station."

Standing, stretching until her spine popped and cracked, Taylor joined the stream of people coming down the center aisle and climbing down the few steps off the bus. She gathered her bag from the compartment under the bus and yawned widely.

"Alright, everybody," Oliver was calling, standing in the train station's front door. "We only have a few minutes to make this connection, let's move!"

Taylor rubbed sleep out of her eyes and followed the rest of the team hurriedly into the train station. Inside, there were only a few other people bustling around or waiting for trains. The eleven Quidditch players might have made up the majority of the day's travelers so far. Realizing she didn't actually have a ticket, Taylor frowned and slowed, looking around to all her teammates.

"I've got everyone's tickets here," called Oliver, as though he'd read her mind. "We're on the far platform, so hustle!" A train whistle blew shrilly somewhere as if to lend weight to his words, and Taylor picked up her pace.

When the team arrived at the right train and car, Oliver handed over a bundle of tickets and ushered his flock onto the train. Taylor, near the end of the line, thought Oliver tried to catch her eye, but she turned quickly away and took the steps by twos. She was still feeling hurt and angry, and though rationally she knew it wasn't Oliver's fault, most of that negative feeling was directed at him.

She heaved her bag into the overhead bin near the front of the car and wandered back toward where the rest of the team was sitting. Instead of being all scattered about, as the team had been on the bus, people were sitting two or three to a seat, awake now and laughing at each other. George and Gary were sitting together, slightly apart from the rest, with their heads suspiciously bent over something Taylor couldn't see.

Then there was a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see Oliver had caught up to the rest of the group. He was now decidedly not looking at her, and Taylor felt a twinge of guilt. There wasn't anything she could do to make amends at the moment, though, as she could see the now all-too-familiar gleam in Oliver's eye that was an oncoming speech. She took the nearest seat, next to Kyle. Conversation eventually died down as others recognized the look on Oliver's face and elbowed their neighbors to attention.

"Okay," began Oliver. "Since we have some time—"

Gary groaned. Others exchanged harassed glances. Clearly everyone was expecting Oliver to launch into a long, detailed lecture about strategies for use in the upcoming matches.

"Oh, stow it, you lot," said Oliver, somewhat exasperatedly. "I just want to go over how things are going to work for the last leg of our trip. You know," he added, "by _Muggle airplane_."

Several people sat up a little straighter, paying more careful attention now. This was new territory for most—if not all—of them.

"The Muggles are having some dark times of their own right now," Oliver continued, and Taylor felt her mouth set in a grim line. Too true, she thought. "They've upped security as much as we have, so it's going to be a little more difficult than we might have thought."

At this point, Oliver pulled a bulging manila envelope from his bag and began rummaging through it. He pulled out several stapled packets of 8.5"x11" Muggle printer pages, flipping through them and beginning to look flummoxed. From the bottom of the bag he retrieved a rubber-banded pack of what Taylor thought might be credit cards—though she fervently hoped weren't; she couldn't really think of anything worse you could give to wizards with no clue as to Muggle money or banking. Putting the papers back in the envelope, Oliver unbound the stack of cards and began passing them out, checking each one as he did.

Taylor looked down at hers when he handed it to her and was surprised to see her own Muggle driver's license.

"What's this?" asked Kyle, turning his card over to look at the back.

"Identification," said Oliver. "You'll need it to get your airplane ticket. Or something."

"How come my picture's all stuck?" asked Gary, flapping his ID wildly before looking at it again, apparently hoping to un-stick his own image.

"It's a Muggle picture, dolt," said Mel.

"Ah..." Gary looked sheepish.

Oliver had out one of the stapled packets again, and he was turning over pages one-handedly, looking for something.

"Yes, we'll need those to get our...um...boarding passes, that's it," he continued.

"What does that mean?" asked Donna, regarding her ID photo with apparent distaste.

"Actually, I'm not entirely sure..."

Oliver did look well and truly flummoxed now.

Any residual anger Taylor might have harbored toward Oliver vanished as she watched him fumble the whole envelope and swear under his breath when he dropped the whole lot on the floor of the compartment. She couldn't help but smile, shaking her head, and she slid off her seat to kneel on the floor and help Oliver collect the fallen paperwork. He looked up at her, surprised, and she smiled and quirked an eyebrow.

"Why don't you let me handle this," she said quietly, pulling a mess of papers out of his hands.

"But—"

"I'm Muggle-born, remember? I know how this works," said Taylor.

"Yes, well," Oliver started, lamely, half-reaching to take the stack of papers back. "I'm captain, I'm supposed to be...well."

"I've got this one," Taylor said. She took Oliver's still-outstretched hand and squeezed it once. Oliver glanced at their hands.

"Taylor, Oliver, what's going on up there?" someone called.

Taylor let go of Oliver's hand rather quickly, and stood.

Oliver turned to see George standing up near the back, craning his neck and trying to get a better look at what was happening.

"Well. Alright then," said Oliver, finally. His tone was somewhat disapproving, but Taylor saw the look of relief on his face when he sat down where she had been.

She stood, sorting through the paperwork. Most appeared to be instructions from the school, like how to act appropriately in different situations that might come up in the course of their Muggle travels. She read through only a few of them and had to stifle laughter, deciding that whoever had written them had very little, if any, actual experience with Muggle air travel.

"Taylor?" George asked, again.

"Right, sorry," she said, turning her attention back to the rest of the team. "Who here has already traveled by airplane?"

Everyone looked around, but no one spoke up.

"No one?" Taylor asked, weakly.

"None of us are Muggle-born," Richard said. The rest nodded. Taylor let out a long, slow breath through pursed lips.

"Oh boy," she muttered. "Alright, here's how it's going to work..."

Taylor launched into an incredibly detailed description of what they would be doing once they got to the airport. Knowing she'd need to explain even the most basic Muggle elements to her teammates, she took them step-by-step through all through all stages of the process.

After half an hour she was shifting her weight to lean against the nearest seat, and after an hour she knelt on it.

As the train rushed southward, Taylor covered check-in, security, boarding, seating, discussed how they should act through all of it, and tried hard to think of any other remotely fathomable situations they might run into.

Taylor answered questions as they came, fielding any and all queries her teammates could throw at her. They seemed to be growing more nervous instead of less as they realized how many things could go wrong in this whole process. Her voice growing hoarse, Taylor was relieved to feel the train begin to slow beneath them. She'd been talking for almost the whole three-hour train ride. Plus she didn't mind not having to answer Kyle's final question: "But how does the thing stay up in the air in the first place, without magic?"

"We'll take it all as it comes, I suppose," said Oliver, standing. "Hurry up! Get your things!"

Taylor tried to hand the envelope of information back to Oliver, but he held up his hands.

"Nope," he said, shaking his head. "You're in charge now, I defer to your judgment and expertise in these matters."

"Oh wonderful," Taylor said. "Now I'm playing den-mother to this lot?"

Oliver just frowned. "I don't know what that means."

"Never mind," said Taylor. "It'll be alright."

Around them, the rest of the team was standing, jockeying for position and trying to get to the front of the car and the luggage before the rest. Taylor was buffeted to one side as George and Gary raced each other up the aisle, practically wrestling, all flailing elbows and shouts of laughter. She lost her balance and was glad of Oliver's sure grip on her arm, pulling her to rights again. They shared a glance, smiling.

Then Charles appeared behind Oliver, lifting his bag up onto his shoulder and accidentally-on-purpose hitting Oliver in the back of the head with it, coughing something that sounded suspiciously like, "_John_."

Oliver let go of Taylor's arm immediately and Charles forced him up the aisle, Ann and Donna following in their wake. Taylor fell into place at the end of the line, behind Paul, and sighed.


	36. SUMMARY

To all my long-time readers:

One of you devoted few, FredFanatic, has made an excellent point: it's been over a year since I updated. You probably only have a general memory of the story, and some of you are loathe to reread the whole damn thing.

So, what follows is a READER REQUESTED SUMMARY; a "brief" review of what has happened so far:

* * *

Muggle-born Taylor Durden, 18 years old and recent graduate from Hogwarts, boards the train to take her off to college at Wandslake Wizarding University, hidden in the Scottish highlands. Alone and nervous on the train she happens to have a run-in with an affectionate cat and her owner, a certain attractive Scotsman she might have known from Hogwarts.

At Wandslake she meets her roommate, Chloe, and they become fast friends, sharing a love of Christmas lights and a deep loathing of dining hall food. Classes start before either girl is ready, and just as quickly Quidditch sign-ups appear on the campus bulletin boards.

Taylor, seasoned Ravenclaw Beater, shows up for tryouts and is slightly intimidated to find herself one of only two girls present. She immediately takes to the other girl, Mel, and soon sees another familiar face from Hogwarts: George Weasley is also trying out for a Beater position.

Oliver Wood, attractive Scotsman from the train, turns out to be the Quidditch team captain, which makes Taylor both nervous and determined to excel. During a scrimmage match, Taylor gets in a fight with the giant Bulgarian, Poliakov, but comes out swinging. He is thrown off the pitch with a broken nose, and Taylor establishes her reputation as a quick temper and quicker fist.

Mel, George and Taylor all make the team, and take Chloe with them for a celebratory dinner, where they run into the rest of the team. Taylor now knows Mel, Ann, Donna, George, Gary, John, Charles, Paul, Kyle and Richard, and Oliver takes each aside to discuss their role on the team; Taylor is told she will be a starting player.

Taking far too many classes, Taylor is advised to talk to John, a second year who had been similarly ambitious—and successful—during his first year. She meets him at the boys' flat, and they escape Charles' terrible cooking by heading back to Taylor's room, where Chloe has installed a magically enlarged full-size kitchen in the closet. Taylor and John agree to meet in the library after her classes each day to study, and she is completely oblivious to John's fairly obvious interest in her. Chloe bemoans Taylor's thick-headedness. Meanwhile, each time Oliver and Taylor run into each other around campus they become equally flustered and awkward and clearly unsure how to approach the other.

Only a few days into the semester, all of Wandslake is shocked when in the United States there is an unexpected and unprecedented Death-Eater attack on the wizarding school in Salem, MA, and on the same day John mysteriously goes missing, leaving Taylor a letter with no real explanation where he has gone or why.

The attack shakes everyone, but George is not one to be kept down by bad news and hosts a team movie-night, which is somewhat overshadowed by the fact he nearly electrocutes himself trying to set up the Muggle electronics. Taylor arrives just in time to perform CPR and resuscitate the unfortunate redhead, though she alarms all her teammates who are unfamiliar with the Muggle practice and are afraid she has used dark magic to bring George back from the dead.

The resulting argument and discussion makes her late for class with Professor Lupin (teacher of both Taylor's Dueling and Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts classes), who—instead of rebuking her—offers her a Ministry of Magic internship, with an interview in Inverness at the end of the week. She agrees to go to the interview, despite her already overloaded schedule.

Near-death experience notwithstanding, George rounds up the team (and Chloe, to cook for them) for the movie night, during which all enjoy ridiculing _Lord of the Rings_ as an example of Muggles' imagining of magic, and Taylor and Oliver continue their awkward flirting. George, who is not one to pussyfoot around uncomfortable situations, takes each aside and harangues them for putting moves on the other while John, still in the running for Taylor's affections, is absent.

At the next practice, Oliver tells the team about the annual jamboree in London, where all the teams in their conference come to play some pre-season matches. He also explains that because of the attack on Salem, Wandslake has taken new security precautions and they are unable to apparate to London directly. Instead they must use Muggle transportation, which will require them all to skip classes on Friday, and also force Taylor to miss her Ministry internship interview.

Painfully early the next morning, the team piles onto a bus and most of them immediately fall asleep again. When Oliver spots a Muggle photograph Taylor is using as a bookmark, she explains that she has adoptive Muggle parents. Oliver, like so many before him, theorizes that Taylor might not actually be Muggle-born, that her real parents might have been witch and wizard. This only upsets Taylor, who long ago decided that—were this the case—her real parents must not have wanted her. She falls asleep on the bus…

* * *

Poof! Six years, 35 chapters and 110 pages in under 830 words. Hope this helps, FredFanatic. Good thinking.


	37. Newspaper

The strap of her duffel resting on her shoulder, Taylor walked out of the train station into the bright mid-day sunlight, clutching the manila envelope full of the team's travel information tightly to her chest. She had already checked and double-checked the company name of the shuttle taking them to the airport, but so far she couldn't see it waiting on the curb anywhere.

Taylor turned around, ready to give instructions (some variation of "hurry up and wait"), and was frustrated to find that only half her teammates had actually followed her outside.

"It's like herding cats," she muttered, using one of her mother's favorite phrases. Nearby, Oliver looked at her curiously.

Rapidly shifting her weight from foot to foot, knees alternately jutting out and back again, Taylor recognized her usual _I'm-irritable_ tick and tried to stand still. She was about to go back inside when Richard, George, Gary and Mel finally came into view. Gary and Mel both gave a start when the automatic glass doors of the station front slid open. They regarded it curiously, paused on the threshold, and then hurried through as the doors started to close on them.

Taylor grinned, wishing she had watched the rest of the team exit the building earlier. At the time she was too worried about leading the pack outside to catch the (now quite late) shuttle.

"What kept you?" asked Donna, who had set her luggage down on the ground and was sitting on it.

"Muggle paper," said Mel, breathlessly, looking cross. She glanced back over her shoulder at the automatic doors, which were now opening for an elderly couple entering the building.

"Look," said Richard, and most everyone gathered closer around him. "Saw the headline on one and had to grab a copy." He turned the paper to face the crowd and pointed to the headline.

_CATASTROPHIC GAS MAIN EXPLOSION AT SALEM BOARDING SCHOOL, DOZENS INJURED_

"It's what the Muggles think happened in the States," explained Gary. He was rubbing his face gingerly. Others were bending closer to Richard or were trying to pull the paper toward them to read it properly.

"They say anything about deaths?" asked Ann. She shared a worried glance with Donna, sitting next to her. "I think the _Prophet_'s been keeping it quiet."

Taylor, however, was momentarily worried about something else.

"Which of you had the Muggle money to pay for that?" she asked.

The three boys all looked briefly at each other, and then said, simultaneously, "Umm..."

Oliver let out a low growl.

"If one of you," he began threateningly, "was actually stupid enough to—"

"Nothing magic!" George said, quickly. "Just...good old-fashioned pilfering…" His voice trailed off near the end.

Taylor could practically hear Oliver's teeth grinding from where she stood a few feet away.

"No one saw it," said George, defensively. "Gary and Mel came up with a distraction."

Mel made an angry noise through her nose and Richard seemed to be biting back laughter.

"He grabbed her—swept her off her feet, mind you—and snogged her proper," explained Richard, happily.

"And then she hit me," Gary said ruefully, still carefully massaging the left side of his face.

"And in the resulting ruckus, Richie and I got away scot-free," said George, evidently pleased with himself.

"Please don't call me that," Richard said, wincing.

Taylor was momentarily unable to be angry as she tried to picture the scene. She was having difficulty managing it, since Mel towered over Gary by a good six inches or so.

Out of the corner of her eye, Taylor saw Oliver moving forward to stand next to her. Still looking furious, he opened his mouth—but Taylor cut in before he could say anything, half-stepping sideways to block him with her shoulder.

"Next time, just ask me," Taylor said to the rest of the team, some of whom were looking worriedly over her shoulder. She tried to ignore Oliver at her back, and imagined his scowl looming down at them all. "I have Muggle money."

She had, indeed, found an envelope of Muggle money in the folder. At first she had been confused, but it was obvious to her once she thought about it that they would need it for plenty of small interactions just to make their way through the Muggle world.

"But seriously, we need to keep a low profile, alright?" continued Taylor, regarding the rest of her teammates solemnly. "The goal is not to be noticed or stand out at all," she finished.

Charles and the girls nodded at her, but the rest were trying to get a hold on the newspaper. Richard was pulling it free of everyone else's grasping hands, scowling.

"Easy, easy," he said, using his elbows liberally to hold them all off. "I'll read it out loud, yeah?"

Richard proceeded to do so, and as everyone else's attention was on him, Taylor turned to Oliver. He didn't look happy.

"Taylor," Oliver started, but Taylor held up a hand.

"I handled it," Taylor said quietly. "You put me in charge; let me handle it."

Oliver still appeared ready to further argue the point, but behind them the airport shuttle had arrived and Taylor turned.

"Not now," she said, quickly. "Here's our ride."

Around her, people were picking up luggage. Donna sighed again as she stood and recovered her slightly-squashed suitcase, and Taylor ushered her teammates toward the shuttle.

The driver, a hefty-looking man in a slightly-too-small uniform, stepped out and surveyed them all. He looked harassed and over-warm, sweat stains visible under his arms and across his back when he turned to open the back doors.

"Are you the University sports team?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"Yes," said Taylor. "That's us."

The driver started packing luggage into the back of the shuttle, and people started piling into the van. Taylor was last in, and it was a tight fit between the eleven of them plus the driver.

"Well this is comfy," said George cheerfully, as Kyle accidentally elbowed him in the face while trying to buckle his own seatbelt.


	38. Airport Security

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER

Okay folks, here's how it is:

My computer has crashed and taken all my current writing projects with it. It's taking an inordinately long time for any of my data to be recovered, and Wandslake (which I'm sorry to say I have really abandoned in favor of other pieces) and its notes, etc, is one of the few that remains on my backup laptop.

I am desperate to keep writing as a creative outlet, and without my notes for other original projects, I'm left with fanfiction and this is what I've got handy. I've always loved this story, however, so I'm glad to be back with it, though my writing style has changed (and I hope to god improved) over the years, so don't be surprised if it's a little different; hopefully it will be even more enjoyable and won't put long-time- (and I mean REALLY long-time-) readers off.

Most importantly, though, I can't promise how long I'll be working on Wandslake again. I have another epic fanfiction in a different 'verse under a different penname, as well as several non-fiction works and a couple novels, and they will take precedence the moment I get the data recovered. I might keep this on as an exercise in juggling several different projects, but I already have a lot to keep me busy, so it is doubtful.

Anyway, enjoy it while it lasts, if you're still interested.

.

George managed to avoid another blow from anyone's elbow on arrival at the airport, ducking back as Kyle unbuckled his seatbelt. Unfortunately, George then stood up into the sliding door frame as he exited the van, swearing profusely and clutching the top of his head, making tufts of flaming red-orange hair stick up between his fingers.

Now Ann and Mel were trying to push past him but there was already a pile-up in front as Donna and Charles both stood frozen and gaping up at the sky.

"Merlin's beard, would you look at the _size_ of that thing?" muttered Gary, pointing over Donna's shoulder at a massive Boeing 747 as it disappeared behind the terminal, presumably landing at the nearest runway.

"Guys, please, _move,_" Taylor called from the furthermost seat in the back of the van. They were taking too long to unload; there was a taxi already trying to wedge into the spot they held in the queue, honking repeatedly.

"What do _they_ want?" Oliver asked, frowning over his shoulder as he stared out the back window.

"They want us out of the way," Taylor said, frustrated, pushing a hand in the small of Oliver's back as he lumbered his way forward, bent almost double in the cramped quarters of the van. She glared back at the taxi driver, too, and they briefly exchanged rude hand gestures.

Her teammates were milling around on the sidewalk, somehow managing to take up all the available space in front of the doors leading into the terminal (though Mel was giving the sliding doors a wide berth, Taylor noticed). Hurried businessmen and anxious families with gigantic rolling suitcases were visibly angry, trying to weave in between the gawking wizards and witches.

"Get out of the way, guys, just move to one side!" Taylor called, finally disembarking last from the van. She was trying to help their driver unload the team's luggage and was annoyed when no one else paid enough attention to lend a hand. "Please, somebody..."

Taylor looked around to Oliver, hoping for help—_he's the captain, he must be able to control them!_—but he was just as much distracted as everyone else by their alien Muggle surroundings. Frustrated and desperate to catch everyone's attention, Taylor finally noticed again the magically enhanced briefcase that held all of the team's Quidditch gear (including her own), tucked safely under Oliver's arm. She reached forward and pulled it out of his grasp before he could stop her, though he lunged for the case reflexively and looked at her in bewilderment as she hoisted it up over her head.

"Taylor, what are you—"

"_Wandslake!_" Taylor shrieked, shaking the case in both hands. "I swear to _god, _I will throw this under a bus if you do not get over here, _now!_"

There was an impossible instant of total stillness and silence throughout the crowd outside the terminal. Other travelers were staring at her surprise, and even taxi drivers had paused in their hurry to ferry their fares' luggage to the curb, frowning, puzzled by her behavior. Then the moment passed and it was the usual flurry of activity again; no one really cared about some madwoman screaming nonsense.

Except the ten faces gone chalk-white in horror. Taylor's teammates had all frozen for a fraction of a second as they looked from Taylor to the briefcase over her head. Then they were gathered around her in a tight circle, as quickly as though they had apparated there.

Taylor lowered the briefcase again (it was remarkably heavy for its size) and glared fiercely around at her teammates, noticing for the first time that she was easily the shortest person among them. Four inches shorter than anyone else, Taylor marveled at how even Charles—the tallest of them all—seemed somehow diminished under her glare.

"_Help_ him, for god's sake," Taylor said, pointing at their driver. He too had frozen at Taylor's outburst and now held Donna's misshapen bag upside-down, dangling half-in and half-out of the back of the van. Richard was the first to reach the man, but Donna used her slightly larger bulk to push him out of the way and seized her bag from the stunned-looking driver.

The Wandslake team emptied the van in a matter of moments and gathered again at Taylor's side, where most of them nervously eyed the briefcase she still held. Taylor dug her hand in one pocket and produced a tip for the driver, who immediately returned to the van and peeled away from the curb, clearly glad to be rid of them.

The honking taxi driver that had been vying for their spot was beaten to it by another passenger van, and the drivers and occupants alike were all shouting fiercely now. Taylor suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Oliver pointing down at the briefcase with an expression of mild unease.

"Can I have that back, now?" he asked, hesitantly.

"No!" said Taylor, turning her body to shield the case from him. "If it's the only leverage I've got on you lot, I'm not letting it go. Now _get inside,_" she ordered.

Taylor was relieved to find an electronic ticketing kiosk by their airline's desk and checked them all in herself (she had to slap George's hand away when he offered to help). Then everyone was somewhat reluctant to relinquish hold of their bags, watching those belonging to other travelers trundling off on the conveyor belt until they disappeared behind the attendants' desks. Taylor had to assure them all that their bags would go into compartments under the plane, just as they had done on the bus that morning, but still ended up having to forcibly pry Kyle's fingers from the handle of his luggage.

Their next hurdle would be passing through security, and though Taylor had walked her teammates through the process in minute detail while they were on the bus, she decided it couldn't hurt to do it again. Plus, she had checked the timing as their tickets printed out at the kiosk and was annoyed to find they had arrived some five hours early for their flight; at least it meant more time to coach those who were less confident.

Some time later, Taylor wearily decided she had done the best she could to prepare her thoroughly non-Muggle compatriots (at the very least, least none of them had anything metallic in their pockets), and she sent them lined up single-file into the security check arena. She had decided to stay near the back of the group, trying to oversee the proceedings from the rear as opposed to going through first and risk leaving anyone behind.

Things seemed to be going mercifully smoothly, until Taylor heard a tell-tale buzzing noise. She peered worriedly around Donna's broad shoulders.

"They've stopped Gary at the metal detectors," Taylor said anxiously. "Why have they stopped Gary at the metal detectors?"

At her elbow, Oliver glanced forward (Gary was only a few people ahead of them in line) and Taylor watched his eyes widen in sudden comprehension. "Oh," he said. "Oh, _no..._"

"What?" demanded Taylor, seizing Oliver's arm. He turned to her and began speaking very quickly, keeping his voice low.

"Okay, here's the thing: Gary comes from a long wizarding line, and I mean _long._ We're talking back to Greek mythology here," said Oliver. "There's even some speculation that his ancestors were the basis for several of the lesser gods in the Greek mythos."

"Yes, fascinating, get to the relevant part," hissed Taylor, watching airport security pulling Gary aside now to let Ann pass through the metal detectors while they searched him.

"Well, his wand has been handed down through the family for _centuries,_ and—if you believe the stories—its core is a strand of the Golden Fleece."

"Okay, wait," said Taylor, rubbing her temples furiously. "We're talking Jason and the Argonauts' Golden Fleece, here?" Oliver nodded, and Taylor started panicking in earnest now. "Oh my god, this is not happening..."

"What do we do?" This was George, who had evidently been listening over Taylor's shoulder. He was watching Gary with growing concern as a security officer started patting him down.

"Where does Gary keep his wand?" asked Taylor quickly, an idea forming in her head.

"I don't know," said Oliver, looking confused as to why she would even ask. "Probably his pocket, like most people." Taylor pushed her way forward toward the metal detectors, elbowing her teammates aside until she stood at the front of the line. She hurriedly put the Quidditch-gear briefcase on the conveyor belt and gave a silent prayer than the resizing spells would fool the x-ray machine. The attendant there frowned for a moment, reversed the conveyor belt to look at the case again, and then shrugged and let it through. Taylor wondered momentarily if there was a _confundus_ charm on the briefcase, too.

But now she turned her attention to Gary, who was still being looked over by a security officer on the other side of the metal detector's gate. The officer standing before Taylor now looked down at her, frowning suspiciously at her earlier insistence to push her way to the front of the line. Taylor just ignored the man, looking past him and waving to catch Gary's attention.

"Gary!" she called. "Darling? It's your hip, love. Remember?" Gary was staring at her now in complete bewilderment. "The pins, from your surgery." Taylor turned to the officer in front of her and explained, "My fiancé. Old football injury, you know." Then she rolled her eyes and lowered her voice to add, "How he manages to forget every time we travel, I've no idea." She quickly looked Gary over, head to toe, and saw the familiar slender bulge in his right pocket that could only be a wand.

Rapping her knuckles against her own right hip, Taylor called out to Gary and the security officer who was now looking him over more contemplatively. "On the right side, sweetheart, that must be what's set them off."

Thankfully Gary seemed to have understood what she was doing, and said, "Oh, that's right, the pins. Thanks, love," he added, laughing, "I forgot." The security officer dutifully waved the metal detector wand over Gary's right side and it chirped happily at his pocket.

"Go on, then," said the officer, jerking his head sideways to usher Gary along. The officer in front of Taylor beckoned her forward through the gate and she hurried to meet Gary, not sure if she was going to tell him off or thank him for catching on so quickly.

She was completely surprised when Gary snaked one arm around her back and pulled her forward into a close embrace, crooning, "What would I do without you, pet?" And then, before she could stop him, he _kissed_ her, solidly, on the mouth.

Someone gave a bark of laughter, which was cut short immediately, though Taylor still recognized it as George's.

After the initial moment of shocked disbelief, Taylor shoved Gary away (he narrowly avoided the sucker-punch aimed for his stomach) and growled through gritted teeth, "Don't embarrass me, _love_, we're in public."

"Yeah, get a room," advised Charles, who was just walking through the metal detectors, grinning broadly. Taylor glared daggers at him before seizing the briefcase from where it rested at the other end of the conveyor belt, and then waited impatiently for the rest of the team to make it safely through security.

Gary wisely stayed well out of range of any more retaliatory attacks.

.

A/N: P.S. Also, it is likely some details/plot points might not quite add up now, given such a long interval between writing and scattered notes, so bear with me. Feel free to point them out, if you are so inclined, and I'll see what I can do to rectify the situation.


End file.
